Glowing Embers: Peeta's Story
by AbigailLupin-Weasley
Summary: Peeta Mellark, a humble baker's son from District 12, is chosen to participate in an annual life-or-death competition he has no hope of winning. The worst part? The enigmatic, dark girl he's loved his whole life will be competing against him. This is my version of the Hunger Games from Peeta's POV. Come with him on his journey through the 74th Annual Hunger Games.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: This is my first fanfic. R &Rs are greatly appreciated and I will do my best to answer them all!**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, or any of the characters.**

I wake up in a cold sweat. My lightweight shirt and shorts are drenched but I know it has nothing to do with the weather. Staring up through the darkness at the old wooden rafters in my attic bedroom, I realize there is still a long time until dawn. The time I spent tossing and turning before I fell asleep obviously wasn't as long as it seemed. I turn my head and squint my eyes, barely able to see the lumpy form in the bed near the tiny open window on the other side of the room. I'm not sure exactly how early it is, but judging from the deep, waffling snores coming from underneath the blankets, my brother won't be up any time soon.

Listening hard, I think I can hear movement two floors below in the kitchen. If my father is already awake I don't see any sense in trying to fall back asleep. I know I won't be able to, not on Reaping Day.

I get up and dress as quietly as possible to avoid disturbing my brother. We get along fairly well if we ignore each other, but waking him up is not a good idea. He's like our mother that way. The small, rickety staircase is more of a challenge, but I manage to make it to the bottom without making too much noise. I tiptoe past my parents' bedroom, even less eager to waken my mother. If I'm quiet she won't be up until dawn when the ovens are hot and ready to be filled with the breads, pies and cakes for the window displays in the front of our house. My parents run the only baking business for the town.

This is usually my favorite part of the day, before dawn and before my mother is awake. My father and I spend the early hours stocking fuel, starting the fires and stoking the flames until the huge brick ovens reach the perfect temperature. It's a quiet time without my mother's shrill, disparaging voice to ruin the peace. By the time I reach the next flight of stairs down to the narrow hall that leads to the kitchens, I begin to feel the glowing heat from the fires. My father has already started. I come down the stairs and enter opposite the gaping mouths of the ovens, whose hunger demands a constant stream of raw confections that eventually feed the district.

His back is to me and he's struggling to carry more wood from the storage bins to massive firebox. Rushing over, I take the heavy load from his arms. My father unlocks and opens the grated iron guard door and the heat immediately becomes more intense. It's an easy thing for me to lift the heavy load of split logs and gently place them into the flames, keeping sparks from flying around the kitchen. My brothers usually just throw them in without checking to make sure the embers aren't too far scattered to maintain an even bake, which is why my father either does it himself, or asks me.

We could use coal, the main resource produced in our District, to heat our ovens, but my grandfather held that bread baked over wood tastes better, so that's what we've always done. I think it has something to do with the way coal ash flies, coating almost everything in town with a fine layer of dust my mother meticulously wipes away from our windows every morning. Coal ash and good bread wouldn't mix.

When I turn to look at my father, his ruddy face is shining with sweat in the firelight. His sleeves are pushed up around his dry, cracked elbows and I can see the scars from a lifetime of burns crisscrossing his skin. His eyes seem tired. He is usually a quiet man, but the silence this morning is different, as if he wants to say something but can't find the words.

Among my friends and family, I can usually be relied on to know what to say to lighten moods or lift spirits. At school, the girls laugh and say my words are as golden as my hair. I wish I knew what to say right now, but my mouth is dry and my tongue seems stuck to the roof of my mouth. The sad truth is there's nothing to say that will change what may happen today, so why bother?

He finally just nods at me, and we fall into our early morning ritual. Since I've come down, he leaves the fires to me and moves towards the cellar door cut into the floor beside the prep table. I stack more wood in my arms from the low pile in the box by the back door, and watch as he makes his way down into the cool darkness, his head disappearing as he nears the bottom. He's going down to get the raw loaves we prepared last night, put in the cellar to rise away from the radiant heat left even after the fires are put out. It's where we keep everything that needs to be preserved, like the fruit, meats and cheeses that go into our pies. The kitchen is always warm, but with the fires fresh it is approaching uncomfortably hot.

I unload the last of the wood from my arms into the firebox, and pick up a poker to rearrange the burning fuelwood. It would not be good from me to let a hotspot form in the ovens. A mistake like that could burn loaves, and it wouldn't be forgiven, even today.

I hear my father climbing back up the stairs. I wipe my hands on a rag sitting beside the firebox door and turn to see him carrying two trays of dough ready to be baked. He also has a jug I don't recognize tucked under his arm. He places the trays on the long, stone topped prep table. We'll put those in as soon as the sun rises and the fires have cooled down a little.

He beckons me over to the rough wooden table where our family takes meals, and motions for me to sit. I pull out my usual chair, the one toward the far end facing the windows and door on the back wall. The door leads to our backyard, where our animals are kept.

Looking up at him, I see my father staring at me with that tired look again. Without the distraction of work, his gaze makes me uncomfortable, and I'm relieved when he speaks.

"Hungry, son? How does some breakfast sound?"

I nod, "Good, sounds good."

Words are still escaping me, and I really just want something to drink, but preparing breakfast will give him something to do other than stare at me. He moves to the counter where he places the trays and pulls a basket towards him, picking through its contents until he selects two dark rolls. Under the high prep table top are several shelves containing mismatched plates, bowls, tin cups and our two precious drinking glasses which neither I nor my brothers are allowed to touch. My father's hands skip over the plates and grab those two glasses, which to my surprise he places on the table. I'm surprised again when he pours a bright golden liquid into each glass, bubbles forming thick white foam around the top. He slides one towards my end of the table, along with one of the rolls. His seat is at the head of the table, almost opposite mine. He sits, takes a bite of his roll and a swig from his glass. His eyes go slightly vacant. They usually do when he's eating, as he's lost in his own thoughts.

I look at my own glass. I can guess what it contains, but I've never had it before. Beer is something my mother detests, not from a moral aversion to intoxication, but a pathological hatred for spending money on anything other than herself. I've always suspected my father kept some secreted somewhere in the house. I wonder if he offered some to either of my brothers when they turned sixteen, or on a Reaping Day. I tip the glass to take a sip, foam tickling the bottom of my nose. It's crisp and cool, and the fizz is unlike anything I've had before. I swallow and feel a very slight, pleasant burn down my throat, but it sits heavily in my stomach. The aftertaste reminds me of the dark, dense bread my father makes when we get a special shipment of rye flour every year during the Victor's Tour for the feasts.

"Beer?" I ask quietly, my voice still hoarse from dryness and I guess tension from what the day will bring. My father briefly brings his mind out of its wanderings to look at me and nod. He puts his first finger over his lips in a motion that means keep quiet. I know he means right now, and to never talk about the beer after it's finished. He brings his hand down and is already back in his own world. The fires are crackling cheerfully, a sharp counter point to the silence between us.

As I alternate between bits of the roll and sips of beer, I sit back in my chair, falling into thoughts of my own. Today is Reaping Day.

The Reaping is a lottery of sorts, but not one anyone in our district ever wants to win. In the better off districts, like 1, 2 and 4, boys like me would literally kill to be named a tribute in the annual Reaping. To have their name drawn out of all the other boys between the ages of twelve and eighteen, to be selected to participate in the Hunger Games. I've even heard announcers from the Capital broadcasts say how jealous they are of us District dwellers and our eligibility in the Reaping. Jealous, I think, jealous that we can get chosen to die?

I stop myself. I shouldn't even think things like that. My family is considered well off for District 12, the coal mining district. It's roughly separated into a town built up right outside the mines, and the Seam. The poorest, hungriest of District 12 scratch out an existence in the Seam. Government officials, merchants and Peacekeepers live in relative comfort in the town.

Being the son of the town baker means I've never been really hungry, never had the sunken cheeks and deadened eyes of the Seam children I see in school. I'm usually well fed, unless I've made an inexcusable mistake and set to work without a meal by my mother. Even if my meals consist of stale bread or cheese too old or meat too tough to add to our pastries or pies.

Thinking bad thoughts about the Capitol is dangerous, because my family's respectable status as merchants could disappear in an instant. For the most part, the Capitol leaves our district alone. As long as we meet coal quotas to appease their ever increasing demand for energy, they consider us too poor to waste their time. That doesn't mean that we can say or do as we please. I remember a family of tailors who lived in the house two doors down from us. I was friends with their oldest son growing up, until suddenly one day they were just gone. Windows boarded up, doors locked. The merchants who came into the bakery would whisper about it with my father, but my mother would loudly proclaim that those who thought themselves better than our lot in life deserved what they got. It put an end to the whispers.

I never really knew what she meant exactly, but it must have had something to do with the way the tailor always stood up for the poorer citizens of District 12 when they ran afoul of the Peacekeepers.

 **A/N cont: What did you think? Let me know! I apologize for any mistakes, I'm using a basic word processor and trying to catch everything on my own.**

 **From this point forward, the chapters will more closely follow those in the original novel. I was just too excited to wait to get this out!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: After this chapter, I am aiming to post chapters once a week. I know the first few chapters will be slow, but unlike a lot of alternate POVs I've read, I'm aiming to actually write it as if the original Hunger Games never existed. I'm explaining a lot of things you probably already know, because if you hadn't ever read the Hunger Games, well, you wouldn't!**

 **I'm writing and editing as I go, so please bear with me on any mistakes. I've already gone back and edited Chapter 1. No content changes, just some spelling and grammar errors I didn't catch the first time through.**

 **Thank you so much for reading! Leave a review to let me know what you think.**

 **Disclaimer: The Hunger Games universe isn't mine.**

Chapter 2

To clear these awful thoughts from my head, I begin to drink the beer more quickly. Small drops escape around the glass and roll down my cheeks, mingling with the sweat already coating my neck.

The sounds of my gulping down the crisp liquid must have drawn my father's attention. He looks at me and smiles, putting down his own glass and says, "Slow down, son. Wouldn't want the Peacekeepers to know I've given you this before the Reaping." Then he frowns. I think acknowledging it out loud is even more difficult for him than simply sharing a beer with me. He mimics me, draining his glass and stands to take both with him back into the cellar. It will keep the evidence of our transgression away from my mother's prying, angry eyes.

As he disappears down the stairs I look out the window, gazing past the view down our market street, over the cluster of hovels that make up the Seam, to the forest. Even from this distance I can see the wind is moving the tree tops gently. They look as if they are dancing. Swaying gently, they welcome the sun in a sky growing ever lighter.

I hear my father return up the cellar steps, gently closing the trap door. He goes back to the morning preparations for the bakery as if our little break didn't happen, though the aftertaste of the beer still lingers in the back of my throat. I make no move to help him and he doesn't ask me to. Thinking of baking reminds me of the work we will have to put in when we return from the Reaping. Families will want to celebrate making it through another year, their children safe. Only two families will mourn tonight.

One of my brothers, Jemin, is twenty and has already made it through his seven Reapings. He will never have to go through it again or worry about his name being called. Colm, my other brother, is eighteen and is going into his last Reaping. At sixteen, I'll have two more if I make it through today.

From down the narrow hallway, a creaking makes me sit up and blink. My mother is awake and is headed to the kitchen. Usually this would mean my father, brothers and I would be moving in double time to avoid being accused of laziness or beaten with her wooden spoon first thing in the morning. But today, I can't bring myself to care that much.

She comes through the door, hair wrapped tightly in a worn red kerchief. She grabs the apron hanging by the door and begins to tie it on over her heavy linen skirts, hesitating briefly as she sees me still sitting at the table. Her already narrow eyes become glittering slits as she glares at me.

"Not even fully sun up and already wasting the day! We're going to lose you and your brother for at least two hours or more this afternoon and that's bad enough without you lazing about!" She moves towards me with hand raised, not even stopping to grab the spoon or rolling pin she usually uses to administer beatings. I don't attempt to move. I just stare into her eyes, mentally preparing for the blow to come.

For the third time I'm surprised, as my father comes behind her and takes her arm. This is such a rare occurrence it stops her in her tracks. She turns with shock on her face. While her back is to me, I try to make myself as small as possible by shrinking down in the chair slowly. This is shaping up to be a nasty explosion.

"Leave him be, Neeka," he says calmly, impassively returning her surprised gaze, "Today of all days, leave him be."

From her profile I can see the emotions flash across her face. Shock, anger, disbelief and finally a type of resigned irritation. She jerks her arm out of his grasp and straightens her kerchief. Glancing as me sideways, she sneers at my father.

"You shouldn't be worried. Haven't we fed him, provided for him, kept a roof over his head so he never had to take a single tesserae? What are his five entries to the fifty that some of those Seam brats must have? If you're going to be worried, worry over Colm, he's got his name in more times. Though I can see neither he nor Jemin have any respect for this family. Still asleep, I imagine? Maybe he will get chosen, serve him right and one less mouth for us to feed!"

And with that, she huffs back into the hallway and we can hear her stomping up the steps. I feel a pang of sympathy for my brothers. There will be no one up there to stop her.

My father turns back to his tasks. He says nothing, and neither do i. Despite her horrible words, my mother has a point. Compared to some of the Seam kids, what chance do I have of getting chosen? Each year starting at twelve, your name is entered into the Reaping bowl once, adding up to seven total chances to be drawn by the time you reach eighteen. But that isn't the only way to have your name entered into the Reaping. The poor, starving children of the Seam can choose to enter their name more times, in exchange for a year's worth of grain and oil rations provided directly by the government. Those extra entries also build on each other, so it's not outside the realm of possibility that some of the older kids from families with lots of mouths to feed have over fifty entries in the Reaping this year.

Because of the tesserae, it's almost always one of the older Seam kids that get chosen in the Reaping. Town dwellers and the younger ones just have less chance of getting picked. Every once in a while though, a merchant's son or daughter or one of the twelve year olds will be selected. It happened once, when I was eight. It was Jemin's first year in the Reaping, and a boy from his class in school was called. Because he was from the Seam, he was even smaller than I was at the time. I remember the adults' deep murmurs, the sadness that everyone seemed to share. It is always terrible when a twelve or thirteen year old is picked.

Racket down the stairs and through the hall precedes the arrival of my brothers, bleary eyed but moving quickly. They both begin helping my father with the huge wooden flats we use to shuffle loaves in and out of the ovens.

My mother follows them in, and looks at me. "Peeta, go chop the new delivery of wood we got yesterday. Our stores are running too low and it will get you out from under my feet and out of my sight. Go. Now!" she says.

Without waiting to see if I've moved, she turns to stare at my father's back, daring him to make an objection. He doesn't even hear her, or at least he acts like he doesn't, which I am much more used to. I push away from the table and head out the back door into our yard.

Under the gnarly old apple tree standing behind our house is the ancient chopping block and axe. I walk slowly across the yard, patting the pig who has ambled over to the side of his pen near his trough looking for his morning swill. Ducking my head a little under a low hanging branch, I step up to the block and pull the axe free of its normal notch. I absentmindedly test the blade with my thumb to make sure Colm sharpened it the last time he was out here. I should have been paying more attention, because the blade cuts a very shallow line through the pad of my finger.

I jerk my hand back, and stick my thumb in my mouth to stop the bleeding. It stings but that's a good thing. If it were deeper, it wouldn't hurt at all. I pull it out and take a look at the single bead of blood forming from under my skin. I sigh. It should stop soon, and going inside to bandage it would mean having to deal with my mother. I decide to just ignore it.

Bending towards the pile of freshly delivered logs, I grab one and set it in place of the block. From there, I quickly fall into the rhythm. Place the wood, swing the axe, stack the wood. Place the wood, swing the axe, stack the wood.

It's such a relaxing, normal activity I soon lose the anxiety that has been hanging around my shoulders like a cloud. My muscles unbunch and my body takes over. It has been a strange morning even for a Reaping day. The mindless task of the chopping clears my mind, the steady thump of steel through wood settles my heart.

I have no concept of the time while I work. I'm so at ease in my labor that I'm startled by the shrill voice of my mother screaming from the door, "Come, you stupid boy! Leave that! You'll be late for the Reaping and that kind of trouble is not something this family needs!" For all her talk of family, I know my mother is only concerned for herself.

I look up at the sky, realizing the sun is almost directly overhead. Scrambling, I stack the last pieces on the top of the tall pile I've made, and put the axe back in its notch. No time to sharpen it today. The sting I had been able to ignore returns to my thumb as I jog back into the house.

As I pass, my mother hits the back of my head with the flat of her palm, saying "And just what are we supposed to do with all of that wood? We can't possible cure it all before the rot sets in! Too stupid to do even the simple tasks, eh?"

"Sorry," I mumble, keeping my eyes down and continuing through the kitchen to the hallway stairs as quickly as possible without looking like I'm running away. That she doesn't demand I come back so she can continue harrying me shows me how late I'm going to be if I don't hurry.

Running up the last few steps out of her sight, I move to the opening leading to the rickety attic stairs. Up the last flight, but staying crouched to avoid hitting my head on the low beams, I move into the more open space where the rafters meet near the roof.

Colm is already clean and dressed, sitting on his bed whittling on a small, wooden pipe flute. He looks up as I go to the stand with the wash bowl and splash water on my face and hair.

"Better hurry up, Peets. Wouldn't want them to shoot you for being late." Attendance at the Reaping is mandatory, not just for those eligible, but the entire district. If you don't show up, or you're late, the Peacekeepers will want to know why. If they don't think you have a good enough reason, you go to prison.

"Shut up," I say. I hate it when he or Jemin call me Peets. He shrugs, and begins blowing into his whistle. A faintly off-key approximation of a jay call fills the attic.

I run a towel over my face and head. I know my hair will be sticking up at odd angles, and use my hands as best I can to flatten it down. That is going to be all I have time for.

I pull off my dirty shirt and pants, pull on the nicest pair I own and start buttoning my only nice shirt. It's a hand-me-down from Jemin and is too tight in the arms and chest. I'm bigger than either of my brothers were at my age. As my father gets older, he can do less of the heavy work, leaving more of it for us, the wood chopping and unloading the fifty pound bags of flour, sugar and salt that arrive each week in the trading market from the Capitol.

Dressed and as clean as I can be, I motion for Colm, "I'm ready," I say. As ready as I can be.

It's a little after one o'clock, from the sun beaming in through our small window. He stands up from his bed and makes his way to the stairs. I follow, almost bumping into him when he stops and looks at me over his shoulder.

"Good luck, Peets." He punches me in the arm and heads down the steps.

"You, too," I say to his back, and follow him down.

 **oOoOoOo**

As my feet hit the ground outside the bakery, I can already feel the tension in the air and in the crowd heading towards the town square. Colm and I merge into the mass of people, moving together, being silently watched by Peacekeepers lining the streets to ensure no one eligible for the Reaping tries to make a run for it.

My mother, father and Jemin will be leaving later. They don't need to be signed in or herded to the roped off holding pens for those who could be chosen. In fact, most of the crowd now is made up of kids ranging from just reaching their awkward teens to mostly grown. Some have their parents walking with them. Others are leading smaller siblings by the hand, guiding them through their first Reaping. I can't keep myself from looking for a particular face in the crowd, but I don't see her.

The children of District 12 are all dressed in their best clothes, some obviously finer than others. I see Madge Undersee, the mayor's daughter, in a pretty white dress with a pink ribbon in her long blonde hair. Colm has already left me behind, working his way through the crowd to friends his age.

I push through the bodies towards Madge, coming up behind her and tapping her on the shoulder.

"Happy Reaping Day," I say, smiling at her despite the nervousness pressing in on me from all sides.

She turns her head and smiles back at me, "Reaping Day, yes. Happy, I'll let you know in a few hours."

Her comment makes me smile a little wider, for the gentle sarcasm in her voice. We fall into silence as we continue to move along towards the square. We are joined by a few more of our friends from school, Delly Cartwright and Able Hammersmith. I just nod to their friendly greetings.

Finally, we arrive in the square festooned with paper banners and other decorations on the buildings. Waiting in line to sign in, I look around again, trying to catch a glimpse of dark brown hair and grey eyes in a specific face. This isn't as easy as it may sound. Though the town kids mostly have blonde hair and light colored eyes, people in the Seam are almost exclusively dark, with brown hair and grey or black eyes. Still not able to spot the one I'm looking for, I sigh and step up to the table. The sullen Peacekeeper manning the book reaches for my outstretched hand, pricks my longest finger with a needle, and presses the welling of blood onto a page. My name appears on a screen next the book, flashes green. I'm waved on past the table, and now two of my fingers sting.

The holding pens are roped off by ages. This year, I move one group closer to the front, where the eighteen year olds are standing. I can see my brother with his friends, as close to the back of their area as possible. As if that will save them if their name is called.

I can't blame them though, my instinct being to stand with my friends at the back of our own area. We're all nervous, the boys getting a little restless and the girls talking in hushed voices. I try to stay out of the way, keeping my eyes on the sign in table. I get worried as the start time for the ceremony gets closer. Will she be late? Will she skip it entirely? I'd hate to see her arrested, or worse, killed just because she didn't make it to the square in time.

But then she's there. Her little sister is clutching desperately to her hand. They sign in, some of the last to come into the holding areas. She drops her sister off with the other twelve year olds, and makes her way to our pen.

She looks so beautiful today. I've never seen her wear the blue dress she has on, but it suits her. Her dark hair has been braided and coiled around her head in a way that accentuates her large eyes. She moves purposefully but not hurriedly to stand with the other Seam kids closer to the front. I see Madge wave slightly, and she returns the little wave before turning her back to us. Her shoulders and neck are tense, but whose isn't today?

Seeing her, the girl I've loved since I was small, calms something in me. I wish I could stand by her side, hold her hand as so many of my friends are doing with their girls. But she wouldn't accept my comfort, wouldn't know why a boy she's never spoken to might want to be near her at a time like this, instead of with his town friends.

The square begins to fill with the rest of the district as I stare at the back of her head. The square isn't large enough to hold the whole district, so stragglers have to stand in the adjacent streets and watch the ceremony on the large monitors brought in from the Capitol on special occasions.

The town clock strikes two and everyone turns their focus to the temporary stage set up in front of the Justice Building. On it, in low-backed black chairs sit Mayor Undersee, Madge's tall, balding father, and Effie Trinket, the garishly fashionable Capitol escort assigned to District 12. Her hair is the exact pink of Madge's ribbon, and her suit is the color of new spring leaves. There is an empty chair between them, reserved for Haymitch Abernathy. He is District 12's only living Victor, and only he could possibly get away with missing the start of the ceremony.

Mayor Undersee stands up and walks the short distance to the podium, where a microphone is waiting for him. His speech is the same every year, the same words telling the history of Panem. We are a country that was formed from the fractured pieces of a place that was once called North America. Natural disasters, famine, and war tore apart what was once a fertile, productive land. When the dust settled, Panem rose from the ashes. A shining Capitol which brought peace and prosperity to the surrounding thirteen districts. To the deep sorrow of the Capitol, the peace did not last. The Dark Days marked a dangerous time of rebellion by the districts against the Capitol. Eventually, twelve of the districts were defeated, the thirteenth wiped off the face of the earth.

The Treaty of Treason was formed with new laws to guarantee a lasting peace and, as a reminder to never again repeat the mistakes of our ancestors, the Hunger Games were instituted.

The rules of the Games are simple. Each district must provide one boy and one girl, between the ages of twelve and eighteen to participate. These chosen are called tributes, and they will be imprisoned in an outdoor arena where the objective is to remain alive, at the cost of the other twenty-three. The Games can last from a few days to close to a month, depending on how quickly the competitors weed each other out. The last one standing wins.

His speech goes on, but I stop listening. I've heard it every year. Instead, I think about what the games actually mean. They are the Capitol's way of humiliating us, of making us feel ashamed and helpless. I feel all of those things, but I've never even held a gun. Never fired the first shot against the Capitol. I think about that twelve year old boy who was chosen in Jemin's first Reaping. He clearly was no threat to the government, could not have hurt anyone if he tried. He died within the first ten minutes of the game, strangled to death by someone bigger, stronger than him. I think about the one who strangled him. Was he a person like me once, before his name was drawn? Did he go to school, have friends, a family, a girl, before the Capitol turned him into a monster?

Maybe that is the point of all this. The Capitol trying to show us how lost, how basic, how animal we would become without them. I look up at Effie Trinket, seemingly enraptured by the stilted, robotic words of our Mayor as he talks about the glory the winners bring to their districts, the prizes of food, even delicacies like extra sugar that will be showered on the winner's home for a year. A Victor receives even more, an entire life of ease and wealth paid for by the Capitol.

"It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks," Mayor Undersee ends his speech and glances back towards the empty middle chair behind him. He begins to read the list of past District 12 victors, a short thing because we've only had two winners in the past seventy-three years. As if summoned by the sound of his name, Haymitch appears. Staggering, yelling something too slurred to make out, he falls into his empty chair. He is obviously very drunk.

A smattering of applause makes its way through the crowd while Haymitch tries to wrap his arms around Effie Trinket in greeting. She just manages to slip under his grasp, knocking her hair slightly askew in the process. The mayor does his best to save her by calling her to the podium with an introduction.

I'm sure the cameras loved Haymitch's bad behavior. The whole ceremony is being broadcasted across Panem. In the Capitol, viewing each of the district's Reapings is part of the crazy spectacle that is the Hunger Games. Once the tributes are chosen and whisked away to the Capitol, people in the districts will be required to watch the Games as well.

Effie's ridiculous high heeled shoes click on the cheap press board of the stage. She beams at the crowd and trills, "Happy Hunger Games! And may the odds be _ever_ in your favor!"

Her funny Capitol accent is jarring after the deep, solemn voice of the mayor. I don't want to hear anything she has to say, so I turn my focus back to the girl I can't help but love.

I do hear Effie say, "Ladies first!" and I know the drawing is about to happen. I can't breathe, can't move, my gaze bores a hole in the back of her head and the only thought in my mind is _not Katniss Everdeen. Not Katniss Everdeen. Not Katniss Everdeen._

Effie reads out the name, and air immediately returns to my lungs. My shoulders sag in relief and I almost cry out in joy that she's safe. Then I see Katniss's knees begin to buckle and the boy standing next to her grabs her arm to hold her up. I wonder what's wrong with her. She wasn't picked!

Then the name Effie called registers in my brain. It wasn't Katniss Everdeen. It was her tiny little sister, Primrose.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games isn't mine.**

Chapter 3

I take one step, two steps forward off the rope at the back of the sixteens' area towards Katniss but as I pass, Madge takes hold of my arm, shaking her head.

I look into her eyes, and her touch takes me back through my memories. Three years ago in this square, under a sky full of stars, I tried to kiss my friend Madge. It was after the feast we hold every year for the Hunger Games victor, and spirits were unusually high. Everyone had stayed in the square after the victor, that year from District 2 I think, had left.

Madge always sat with her family. As daughter of the mayor, she was given the honor of sitting with the victor at the head table. But afterwards, she had come to be with the other town kids. Around school, she has always been something of a loner but does spend a little time with the town kids in our class. I have always felt close to her, though. She is a listener, an observer, quiet where other girls often annoy me with their loudness. Other boys admire her, too. She is very pretty, and I thought that night I could see her as something more than a friend, someone who could help erase the one girl I could never seem to get off my mind.

I waited until she had stepped a few feet away from the group and came up behind her, tapping her on the shoulder.

"Happy Victory Tour," I said. She just laughed and smiled up at me, but the smile didn't really reach her eyes. Hoping to change that, I bent my head towards hers. Madge allowed my lips to touch hers, a butterfly of a kiss, and pulled away. She looked up at me, said, "Who is it you really want to be kissing, Peeta?"

Then she turned and walked away. Somehow she knew, maybe had always known. She has always noticed more about me than anyone else. Never accepted my explanations when I come to school bruised or cut. Or when the others make fun of me for daydreaming so much. Always, she seems to see the truth of things.

I watched her walk away, thinking to follow her to explain, but there wasn't anything to say, really. As Madge left the square that night, she gave the same tiny wave I saw today. My eyes followed her line of sight, and saw _her_ , just as I had today. Back then, Katniss was also in a group of Seam kids, all full of food for once. She was laughing with a tall boy, and holding her sister's hand. Her sister, Primrose, alone among the Seam kids in her golden blonde hair, fair skin and light eyes. Prim for short, who is known and loved by the entire district for her gentle, caring nature.

Prim, who now walks toward her imminent death. Angry murmurs ripple through the crowd gathered in the square today, but softly. There's nothing anyone can do to stop the oncoming horror, the death of this tiny, fragile girl.

Prim's steps are steady, and as she walks past us I can see the back of her shirt has come untucked, hanging over her skirt. I close my eyes. I don't want to see this, don't want to be part of this ceremony where kids like Prim even have the smallest chance of walking to their own destruction. Because sometimes, that small chance becomes the only one. Like the year of Jemin's first Reaping. Like today.

I move my arm in Madge's hold until I have her by the hand, squeezing it for strength. She squeezes back in reassurance. I wish, if just for a second, that I could take the place of the girl walking to the stage. I have forgotten to be worried that another may wish it, too.

My eyes snap open when I hear a strangled cry.

"Prim!" Katniss is moving toward her sister, "Prim!" and no one is trying to stop her. The pain in her voice draws me to her like a moth to a flame. I make to go to her, but Madge's gentle hold turns into a vicelike grip on my hand. I turn to look at her, surprised. She's incredibly strong for such a quiet girl.

Again, she just shakes her head. She knows there is nothing I can do, nothing can be done to stop what I know is about to happen.

"I volunteer! I volunteer as tribute!"

The words slice through me, a hot, sharp knife through just baked bread. And that's it. As relieved as I was, now I am sick. I can't think, can't move, can only hold onto Madge's hand while I watch my nightmare unfold in front of me.

Katniss shoves Prim behind her, blocking her from the eyes of those on stage, from the cameras and those who would put this little girl in such grave danger. Mayor Undersee, Effie Trinket, everyone is confused. In the more wealthy districts, closer to the Capitol, where being a tribute is a privilege and winning the Hunger Games is an honor, volunteering happens so often the procedure is well known. But no one in District 12 ever volunteers. There hasn't been one in my father's lifetime, and nobody seems to know how to handle it.

Effie Trinket recovers first, "Lovely! But I believe there's the small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um…" She stops, looking back to Mayor Undersee for assistance.

He steps forward, "What does it matter?" He says gruffly, looks at Katniss, shakes his head in a gesture so much like his daughter's, "What does it matter? Let her come forward."

If you have looked at her face as much as I have, you would see the brief flashes of emotion that Katniss reveals then. Relief, fear, resignation. Everyone else probably just saw a mask of determination settle around her eyes as she takes her first step forward.

But Prim has locked her arms around Katniss's waste and is screaming. "No, Katniss! No! You can't go!"

This is all so unreal. It's happening somewhere else, somewhere far away. My brain can't process the pain my heart feels as I watch Katniss turn to her sister and tell her to let go. Her voice is harsh, unyielding, a tone I have never heard her use towards Prim. I can see the pain that's causing her to lash out at the one she loves the most, and wonder if anyone else can.

Prim isn't breaking off, but suddenly a tall boy, man really, is pulling her away, hoisting her up and whispering in Katniss's ear. It's the same boy I saw with her that night in the square after the Victor's Feast. The same boy I see her with almost every day we are out of school. I am jealous of him, have always been jealous. I want to snatch Katniss up like he has Prim, and run as far as I can, but Madge still has a hold on my hand. I can only watch as Prim turns into his broad shoulders and sobs. Katniss finally makes her way up the stairs. Prim is carried to her mother, pale and shaking almost as badly as Prim.

When Katniss reaches the top of the steps, she moves to stand beside the podium.

"Well, bravo! That's the spirit of the Games!" Effie Trinket is fairly glowing, ecstatic to finally have something interesting happen in our quaint little district. "What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen," she says. Her voice is flat and emotionless. She has shut out the bubbly Capitol mouthpiece on her left, the cameras, the audience, everything, and stares straight ahead.

"I bet my buttons that was your sister!" Effie says, "Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!"

I shudder. Applause? Glory? Can she really think Katniss wanted this? Can Effie really be so blind to what happened at the foot of that stage? The gaping hole in the pit of my stomach suddenly fills with what feels like fifty pounds of flour. I will not clap, will not condone this.

No one else in the district will, either. We all just stare at the stage, at the girl who was brave enough to walk into certain death for her sister. Bravery is highly prized here in District 12. It takes a certain kind of courage to survive down in the coal mines, a courage to face an unstoppable force and draw something useful from it. The tons of rock in our mountains, the Capitol, both unstoppable forces the people of District 12 can only endure.

Katniss has shown she has that courage, and we honor it the only way we know how, with our silence. I slowly move my left hand towards my mouth. Madge sees the movement and releases my other hand to do the same. We touch the three middle fingers to our mouths, and hold them out towards Katniss. Those around us see what we've done, and follow suit. Soon, the whole district is holding up their left hands.

This is an old gesture in our district. They teach us in school these things from before the Dark Days are to be forgotten, but a few have held on. This one is rarely used, mostly at funerals, and it means admiration, thanks, goodbye to someone you love. It's the only way I can tell her now, how I feel, my awe at her bravery and my love for her. And how much I will miss her, this girl who I've never had the courage to speak to myself.

"Look at her! Look at this one!" Haymitch Abernathy's voice booms out from the silence. He makes his unsteady way across the stage, throwing his arm around her to regain his balance. The crowd drops their hands and collectively cringes at the slurring in his words.

"I like her! Lots of… Spunk! More than you!" The drunkard releases Katniss and wobbles towards the front of the stage, "More than you!" he shouts, pointing directly at the camera closest to him. The silence turns from solemn to shocked. Could Haymitch be deliberately taunting the Capitol?

He gesticulates wildly, as if to continue, but sets himself off balance and tumbles from the stage, knocking himself unconscious. More confusion ensues as those closest to the front push back to allow the Peacekeepers through. They move Haymitch's unresponsive form onto a stretcher and carry him away, every camera following his progress through the crowd.

But I'm not looking at Haymitch. I'm looking at Katniss, her expression unguarded for just a second, disgust, relief, and could that be gratitude flit across her face. Her eyes seek out her mother and sister, clinging together at the back of the audience, two fair heads bent together in sorrow. The steel in Katniss's eyes slams back down. The show must go on.

"What an exciting day!" Effie Trinket tries to get us back on track. She grabs her frosting pink hair, which must be a wig as it has listed severely to the right, in an attempt to straighten it. "But more excitement to come!" She trills, "It's time to choose our boy tribute!"

Holding onto her hair, she crosses purposefully to the clear glass ball containing the slips of paper bearing the names of all the boys in District 12. Her hand dives in and grabs the very first one she can reach. She's given me no time to refocus, no time to worry for myself or my brother when she nearly runs back to the podium and reads the name.

"Peeta Mellark."

Peeta Mellark!

Now I know this must be a nightmare. I know I will wake up in my bed in the attic above the bakery. I will hear my brother's snores and see the old wooden rafters supporting our roof. I'll go down to the kitchens to help my father, and everything will be normal. Katniss will be safe, I will be safe.

But someone is tugging on my hand. My eyes clear and I can see Madge's face. Her lips are moving, but no sound is reaching me. I think I'm in shock. They talk about this in school, that after a mining accident it's not uncommon for whole families to remove themselves from the situation. To see everything as if it's happening to another person.

That's how I feel right now. I know Madge is pushing me gently towards the stage, but I can't feel it. I know my feet are moving, but my mind isn't controlling them. I pass the other kids, keeping my eyes forward. As I make it to the stairs, I see a crumpled blue ribbon ground into the dust. It must have fallen out of Prim's hair as she struggled to hold on to her sister.

That ribbon brings me back to the present, back to my body. I can feel myself begin to panic but fight hard to hold in the emotion. Like Prim, there is nothing I can do but walk forward. But unlike Prim, I have no one who will shove me aside. No one who will take my place. Jemin is too old to be eligible, and Colm, who could, never would. What Katniss has done is the exception, not the rule.

I make my way up the steps and catch the eyes of Mayor Undersee. He looks tired, sad. Has Madge talked about me at home? Does he recognize the boy who sometimes walks her home? Does he care that I'll never return to District 12?

I take my place beside Katniss. I know the mayor has moved to end the ceremony by reading out the rest of the Treaty of Treason, but I don't hear anything. I can feel her presence burning like a flame down my left side, since this is the closest I've been to her in years. His dull words flow over me as I enjoy the warmth of her nearness, a sharp counterpoint to the cold horror slowly creeping into the rest of my body. Isn't it funny, that the Hunger Games would bring us together? Isn't it terrible?

The mayor finishes his speech, and motions for me to shake Katniss's hand. I move towards her, holding my hand out to take hers. It's so much smaller than my own, but calloused like mine, and strong.

I look into her eyes and she looks back, but I don't think she's seeing me. Her mask is still in place, and her gaze is empty.

What I see a five year old girl, two dark braids down her back, in a red plaid dress. She's standing on a stool in our music teacher's room on the first day of school, singing in a high, sweet, clear voice, and even the birds have stopped their chorus to listen. It's the moment I fell in love with her.

I see a girl, maybe seven, walking with her father down the street. They are totally absorbed in each other, smiling and laughing, taking no notice of the small boy who watches them out the window, hidden behind the cakes and pies and bread.

I see a girl with lanky legs, ten, running in a foot race outside the school building. She's faster, much faster, than the other girls. Her eyes flash with triumph as she crosses the finish line.

I see an eleven year old, cheeks hollow and eyes sunken in, leaning against the old apple tree in our backyard. My mother has warned at her to leave our property or risk having the Peacekeepers called, but I watch as she slowly sinks to the ground, protected on two sides by gnarled roots. She is dejected, hungry, hopeless. I can see it from the slump of her shoulders, the heavy angle of her head. It is late, and my mother has returned to the kitchen to finish up the evening's tasks. I turn and follow, moving to the far oven, taking out the final loaves of the day. I hold them in my hands, crusts still hot from baking, and make a decision. I pretend to trip over the knotted rug in front of the ovens, made from rags and fraying at the edges, and let the loaves slip from my fingers, falling just as I had planned into the open fire grate where Colm is spreading out the last of the dying embers.

Colm scrambles to retrieve the loaves, but it's too late. They've been burned beyond scraping, beyond even being served to our family for a meal. My mother hears the commotion and rushes over to see the damage. She turns on me, reaches back with the wooden spoon in her hands, and brings it crashing around on my face, right underneath my eye. The sting automatically brings tears to my eyes, and I can't help but whimper faintly as she brings the spoon down again, on the exact same spot.

She screeches, "Feed it to the pig, you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!"

This is better than I could have hoped for. Only two blows, and no need to sneak the loaves out of the trash and into my school bag to take to the girl the next day. I hurry outside before she can change her mind, tearing chunks and throwing them to the pig while I can feel her eyes on me. Luckily, the bell at the front of the store chimes, signaling a paying customer has entered, and her gaze lifts off me. I look over my shoulder, just to be sure, and throw one, then both loaves at the girl's feet.

I see the girl the next day, cheeks still hollow, but eyes sharp and clear. She is collecting her sister, ready to head home for the afternoon, and she looks up. Our eyes meet for a moment, but I look away. I don't want her to know I'm staring.

I see and remember all these things as we stand, hands clasped across a chasm I know I will never be able to cross. I wonder now why I could never gain the confidence to talk to her, get to know her, be with her, tell her how I feel. But it doesn't matter. It never will.

We turn together to face the crowd and the anthem of Panem plays.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: A great big THANK YOU, you awesome readers you, especially those of you who have followed/favorited this story (MissJulia96, NamiiLove and Pyro'sPrincess052012), and to my reviewers! Meilan and morningstar115, thank you! I can't thank my anonymous reviewer by name, but thank you anyway!**

 **Two of you have commented on my name choices for Peeta's brothers. Don't hate me if I admit I thought the symbolism behind Peeta's name (and even Gale's for that matter) was a little too obvious. If any of you can tell me the connection between Colm and Jemin, and why I chose them, I'll enlist your help in naming a character in an upcoming chapter. You can either leave your guess in a review or PM me (shameless plug for reviews, I know!). I'll use the time stamp from FF to judge who got the correct answer in first. You can participate as an anonymous guest, but I won't have any way to contact you for your prize, and where's the fun in that?**

 **Again, thank you for reading! Can't wait to hear what you think about the chapter and your guesses!**

 **Disclaimer: The Hunger Games are not mine.**

Chapter 4

When I was very young, the anthem of Panem used to fill me with happiness, and pride. The melody dips and weaves, like the flight of birds through buildings of a town, ending with a crescendo that can stir even the coldest heart. I would hold onto my father's hand and listen, enraptured, as the notes painted a picture of triumph and strength. Music sparks art in my mind, each note a different color in a vast tapestry of sound.

It wasn't long though, until the anthem began to evoke hate, and fear in me. It's only played when something horrible has happened, and the circumstances stole my joy in the music. Workers killed in a mining accident, played at their funeral. Public executions for law breaking, though those are rare. Tributes chosen in the Reaping.

As the final notes fade into silence, Katniss and I are surrounded by Peacekeepers. The closest to us are all unfamiliar, not our district's normal crew. They've obviously been brought in by the Capitol for the day as a show of power to the people of District 12. Look how easily we take your children. Look how they walk to their doom, like lambs to the slaughter.

Like a lamb, I follow their directions to turn and make my way into the Justice Building. Katniss seems still routed to her spot, and I look around to see what's holding them back. One of the strange Peacekeepers has to take her arm to get her moving. I want to yell at them not to touch her, to leave her alone, to let her go, but like the good little lamb I am, I proceed through the slaughter gates.

The inside the Justice Building is one of the few beautiful places in District 12. The furnishings are kept pristine for the occasional Capitol representative, like Effie Trinket, who might be required to stay overnight in our town. I catch glimpses of rich wooden tables topped with sheets of smooth greenish-tinted glass over immaculately white linens; richly upholstered chairs with plump pillows; a stately fireplace made of the same white stone as the outside of the building where a roaring fire crackles merrily, reminding me of the fires that burn at home. _I'll never see them again_ , I think. Not the fires or the ovens above. Not the long prep counter in the kitchen, or our own wooden table, worn from years of hard use. After today, District 12 will be nothing but a memory to me.

These images and thoughts flash past me as I'm escorted to a small room. Our friends and families have an hour to say goodbye before Katniss and I will board a train to the Capitol. The room they've selected for my final farewells faces the front of the building. Directly across from the door, there is a bay of windows with a bench tucked below, more of the same soft pillows I saw in the foyer covering its surface. The window looks out over the square. I can see the crowd dispersing, a huddled mass moving as one, clinging to each other in the knowledge that everyone present is safe, at least for another year.

I'm not sure what to do with myself. I still feel grubby from my very hasty morning washing and I don't feel right sitting on any of the expensive furniture in the room. I worry I'll ruin the fabrics. _What are they going to do to me if I do ruin them? What could they possibly do that would be worse than what I'm facing right now?_

The thought brings a faint smile to my face. The smile turns into a grin, and before I know it, I'm chuckling to myself, still watching the people of District 12 walk as fast as they dare back to their homes and relative security.

I continue to laugh, a little hysterically, until I hear someone cough softly behind me. I whirl around, the laughter dying on my lips as I see my father, two brothers, and mother standing just inside the door. I look at each of their faces. My father's solemn and a little shocked at my levity. My brothers' identical grimaces of discomfort, Colm's especially. I wonder if he's feeling guilty for not volunteering in my place. I don't feel angry towards him, or blame him in any way, but I'm sure he'll get over his guilt as soon as the Games start. My mother's, eyes narrowed, arms crossed tightly over her chest, toe moving but making no noise on the think carpets.

"You think this is funny, do you? Well laugh away, you stupid creature! You're going off for a week of the best food and finest treatment anyone from this sorry District could ever expect, and us left here with one less person to help with the chores! Funny, I don't think!"

My mother's vitriol is expected, if not welcome. She honestly believes that she's been put out by the Reaping more than anyone, and that I'll have a great old time in the Capitol, up until the point some Career tribute puts an end to it with the sharp end of a knife.

She flounces into the room and plops herself down on the most comfortable looking chair, a small white cloud of flour dust rising from her skirts and floating gently down to settle on the green fabric of the chair and into the deep woven fibers of the carpet at her feet. I almost start laughing again at the sight, certain some poor servant of the Capitol will have to spend hours scrubbing at the upholstery to remove the fallout from my family. Flour is almost as persistent as the ever present coal dust in our air.

My father and brothers follow her into the room and settle on the couches and chairs around me. I still can't bring myself to sit, and just stare at each of them trying to memorize their faces, even my mother's. They may not be perfect, they may not always understand me, they may tease or even beat me, but they are my family, _mine_ , and the Capitol can't take their memories from me, even if they want to take my life.

None of them can look at me. My mother is too preoccupied with the lush surroundings to care who else is there, and my father and brothers just stare at the floor. For several minutes we just sit in silence until Jemin finally gets up, apparently unable to take any more. He crosses to stand in front of me, puts his hand on my shoulder, looks me in the eye briefly, and just leaves. The soft click of the door closing behind him gets Colm moving. He actually speaks to me though I can barely understand what he mumbles. It sounds close to "I'm sorry," and then he is gone, too.

Just my mother and father now. She focuses her attention on me, her gaze traveling from my feet to the top of my head, and sighs.

"District 12 may just have itself a winner this year," she says, pushing on the arms of the chair to lever herself out of the deep cushion. She doesn't even say goodbye, just walks to the door, but pauses before opening it. She turns back, and I don't know what I'm expecting her to say. I'm shocked she even thinks I have a chance to win the games. It's a rare vote of confidence, and my heart warms a little towards her. Maybe she'll offer an even more rare word of affection, or a wish of luck, anything, other than what comes out of her mouth next.

"She's a fighter, that one," she says. She shrugs her shoulders, opens the door and walks out, not even bothering to close it behind her.

A silent Peacekeeper reaches through the doorway and grabs the knob to pull the door shut. For a moment I'm stunned, and then angry with myself for ever believing she would have faith in me. My own mother thinks Katniss has a better chance at winning than her youngest son. Not only thinks it, but said it to me! What a horrible women!

That thought breaks me. It's the last straw on top of a heap that's been piling up on my heart since Katniss volunteered to take her sister's place. I let out a single sob, and then shake as silent tears course down my face. My terrible mother, with her terrible words, has yet another good point. That's two for one day, which may be a record for her. I have no chance of winning this. Never really thought I did, but her words bring it home. Inside of two weeks, I'll be dead.

I feel strong arms circle around my shoulders, holding me tightly against the tears. I wrap my arms around my father's waist and he rocks me, like he did when I was little and I was afraid of the dark. I feel hot tears spill into my hair and I know, at least by him, I'll be missed here.

He pulls away first, wiping his eyes on a clean white rag he's pulled from the pocket of his best trousers, and hands it to me. I dry the tears from my face. He reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a small white paper package, and hands it to me, too.

"Goodbye, son," he says, and then he's gone as well. Through the door and back to the bakery where the fires burn and everything is in order. I didn't speak a word to my family, and now it's too late. I wish I could call them back, tell them I love them, promise them I'll try, even if I can't win, to not let the Games change me, that I'll make them proud.

I make it to the chair my father just vacated right before my knees give out. Closing my eyes, I open the package and hold it under my nose. I inhale deeply, and I know what's inside. These are the cookies my father makes every year, hidden away in small packets without the knowledge of my mother, and given to the tributes' families before they go to say their goodbyes. He is a kind man, my father, and I've tried all my life to be like him. To show kindness to others, to think of them first and myself second. These cookies he baked for another family he's now handed to me as the best form of comfort he can provide.

I wonder if Katniss will get her cookies. I hope so. I would hate to think, here at the end, my father wouldn't give them to her family even though we are now competitors.

Another grin comes to my face. I'm not really competition for Katniss. My mother was right, she's a fighter. She braves the forbidden woods outside the security fence that surrounds our district to hunt and provide for her family. My father says her aim is perfect, that she hits the squirrels she sells him dead in the eye, every time. Put a bow and arrow in that girl's hands and she really could win the whole thing.

I sit up straight in the chair. A thought, a hope, a glimmer of an idea comes like a whisper in my mind. _She could win. She could come home and be safe and live the rest of her life without fear, without having to struggle or starve. She could win, and I could help her…_

The image of Katniss triumphant, wearing the traditional Victor's crown as she steps off the train from the Capitol into the arms of her loving family, turns my earlier grin into a full blown smile. I'm seeing her happy face in my mind's eye, hearing the roar of the crowd as our people lift her up and carry her to the square to be celebrated, the third victor from District 12, when the door opens again.

Madge Undersee timidly enters the room. She takes one look at my face and stops, her confusion apparent. I hold out one hand to her and she starts moving again until she reaches me, takes my hand and sits in the chair closest to mine.

"Peeta," she says in her soft voice, "Peeta, I know this must be hard for you."

She says it as a statement, but at the end her voice trails up ever so slightly, making it almost a question. She wants to know why I'm smiling.

"Yeah, you could say that, I guess," I say, "Terrible, awful, worst day of my life." I chuckle a little, looking at her stricken face.

"Don't. Don't joke now."

"Who's joking?" I ask, "It is the worst day of my life. I'll be dead soon, and maybe so will the girl I… well, so will Katniss. What else do you want me to say?" I can't say out loud that I love Katniss. Madge may know, but finally acknowledging it to someone may send me over the edge again, and this time, I don't think I could ever come back.

"Say you'll try, Peeta! Say you'll fight to win. Say you'll not give up hope so easily," she's angry with me now.

"You know I won't, Madge. You know I can't mean it even if I do say it, not when trying will mean killing her."

"You don't have to kill her! Someone else may take care of that for you! So don't give up just because you couldn't bring yourself to end her life." Madge says.

"That may be true," my eyes bore into hers, "But do you really think I could let that happen? Do you think I could just abandon her, my feelings, everything, just to try and win myself? I can't let them take it away from me. Loving her is all I have left."

There, I've said it. I don't feel the hysterical need to cry like before, so maybe I won't go crazy. Maybe I'll make it through this ordeal sane, be able to keep it together long enough to make some kind of plan.

Madge just stares at me. She looks just like her father now. Sad, tired, resigned.

"She better be worthy of this, Peeta. You know she's my friend, but I don't think anyone is worth more than you." She blushes, and I wonder if I weren't so hung up on Katniss, if maybe Madge would have accepted my kiss that starlit night.

I just shrug, suddenly uncomfortable where our friendship had always been so easy.

"Are you going to say goodbye to Katniss, too?" Madge nods. "Don't say anything to her. Not about me, or what I feel or what I'm thinking or any of it. Promise me, Madge!"

I'm squeezing her hand too tightly. Her fingers convulse in my grip. I release her hand from mine, but she reaches over and grabs it again.

"I won't. I wouldn't. Not ever. I've kept your secret since we were five, Peeta. I'm not changing that now."

So she has known all along. It doesn't really matter now, though. None of it matters, if I can't get Katniss home.

"Thanks, Madge. Just… thanks," my words aren't enough right now, but I can't think of anything else to say. I stare at the floor, still not entirely at ease with what I've said, what I think I've discovered in our conversation.

"A few of the others wanted to come to say goodbye, but I told them not to. I thought you may like as few of these meetings as possible. Was that ok? If not, I'm sure I can find them before your hour is up," she says. Madge knows me better than anyone, it seems.

"No, you were right," I look up at her, "thank you." I hope she knows what I am trying to say. That I'm thankful for her friendship, her thoughtfulness and kindness, her courage to come in to say goodbye to me. That I will miss her.

She stands, leans over and kisses me on the forehead, another butterfly of a kiss, and says, "Goodbye, Peeta."

"Goodbye, Madge." I whisper. I close my eyes, and the soft breeze from the hall as the door opens and closes tells me she's gone.

 **oOoOoOo**

I sit for a time in silence, realizing that no one else is coming. District 12 has said its goodbyes, and I'm thankful for the remaining minutes of my hour allotment to collect myself. There's nothing I can do to erase the evidence of my tears but I straighten my shirt, dust flour from my pants, and retie my ragged shoe laces, the shoes hand-me-downs from Colm. Then I just sit and breathe. The days ahead will hopefully pass swiftly, but I'll have cameras around me almost the entire time and it's comforting to know I have this last, unobserved moment on my own.

Without knocking, the Peacekeepers enter and stand just outside the threshold. I've been cooperative so far, so they seem amenable to letting me walk around without their assistance. As I cross into the hallway, I hear her.

"Don't let them starve!" Her voice holds panic.

"I won't, you know I won't! Katniss, remember, I know you can do this!" I don't know if she even heard his words. They've slam the door in her face before he can finish and a struggle has broken out. The boy, that same boy who took Prim, who is so close to Katniss, bucks against the hold of two Peacekeepers. My two rush over to assist their counterparts. Am I that docile, that they don't even worry I'll make a run for it?

The boy shakes off the Peacekeepers' grasping hands, saying, "Enough, ok? I'm going. See, I'm going!" He stomps past them, fury in his clenched fists, his tight shoulders. He vanishes out the front door into the sunlight.

The uniformed guards wait until they are sure he is gone before opening Katniss's door and ushering her out. All traces of panic are gone, and her steely mask is back in place.

We're escorted from the building, down the front steps. The makeshift stage has already been removed, the banners, flags and ribbons that covered the shopfronts taken away. A car pulls smoothly around a corner, glides to a stop before us, and a Peacekeeper opens the rear passenger door, gesturing for us to enter.

I go first, and slide across the leather seats until my shoulder hits the far door. The interior is the dark, rich color of cranberries. We get a small shipment from the Capitol at the end of every year, to make the special New Year's cakes the inspectors from the Capitol expect to have when they come for their annual visit. I've only ever tried one, when I was sure my mother wasn't looking. They are tart, no real hint of sweetness like other berries, but smell delicious when soaked in the golden liquor we use to moisten the batter.

The leather, the carpets, the fabric on the ceiling, everything around me is deep red. It matches the warm flush inside me when Katniss slips into the car and the door is shut. We are very close now, even closer than we were on the stage, and I can't help but look at her out of the corner of my eye. She hasn't been crying, her eyes are clear and dry, shoulders straight and proud. A flash of gold on her chest makes me curious, but I won't go so far as to stare openly at her.

A Peacekeeper gets in the front seat beside our driver, and the car pulls away from the building. It's a short ride over to the train station, but I wish it would last forever. I've never been in a car before, the feeling is strange, but it's Katniss that makes this trip so enjoyable. Even with the silence between us, her presence is like a balm to me, soothing me, calming me, helping me to accept the things I'm preparing to undergo.

We reach the train station, and it's hard to see the train for the people. Reporters from the Capitol, camera men, some familiar faces from District 12, all vying to catch a glimpse of us as we exit our vehicle.

They part around the determined march of the Peacekeepers who arrived ahead of us, making an aisle leading to the doors of the train. We're escorted as far, but made to stand in the opening while the cameras flash, recording our images for the greedy eyes of the Capitol viewers. I'm so close to her now I could stretch out my littlest finger and touch her hand. Questions are screamed at us from every side, but I take my cue from Katniss and keep silent. Most of the questions are being directed at her anyway, but she acts like she can't even hear them.

Finally allowed to board, the doors close behind us and the train starts off. I become a little unsteady on my feet, the speed of it briefly unbalancing me. It's a day full of firsts for me, as well as lasts. I've never been in a train either, as District dwellers are not allowed to travel outside of their district except on official Capitol business. Those who work the coal trains only get to see the train stations in the other districts, never permitted to leave the platforms after unloading is completed. This is no coal train though, and it should get us to the Capitol in less than a day.

Our District was created from an area that was known as Appalachia, or so we're told in our history lessons. The Capitol itself is in another string of mountains once called the Rockies. Their mountains are taller, steeper, more easily defensible than ours. Its location played a crucial role in the outcome of the Dark Days. The rebelling districts just couldn't find a way to penetrate their defenses, or overcome the tactical advantage of high ground. The teachers read us these things from Capitol approved textbooks. When they would start the history lectures, I would amuse myself by imagining some hideous idiot, sort of the male version of Effie Trinket, sitting at a desk writing the Capitol's version of the truth about the Dark Days to disseminate to the districts.

But the Capitol idiots do have style. The tribute train is even more beautiful than the Justice Building. We're each given our own set of rooms, with separate sleeping, changing and bathing areas. There is even a shower, and hot running water. Hot water in my house is reserved for my mother's baths and any cooking that needs to be done. I sit on the bed, instantly sinking into its soft, white cotton folds. It's bigger than my bed and Colm's combined, and can't all be meant for me.

I'm still trying to take it all in, my feet skimming the plush carpet, when Effie Trinket sticks her head in my door.

"Peeta, there are soaps and lotions and all manner of cleaning supplies in the bathroom, and clean clothes in every drawer. It's all for you, and you can do or wear anything you want, just be clean and ready for dinner in the dining car in one hour. Please be punctual!" she trills, whisking out the door and sliding it closed. I hear her give the same speech to Katniss across the hall.

I step into the bathroom, stripping out of my clothes. I'm not sure what to do with them, so I fold them neatly and place them on the floor right inside the doorway. I am grateful for the opportunity to get clean. The shower is a new experience, the soft falling water is soothing and I want to stay in there forever. But Effie's urging pushes me, so I scrub myself quickly and dry off with one of the fluffy white towels stacked in a woven basket on the floor.

Choosing clothes shouldn't be difficult. At home, I have seven pairs of pants and seven shirts, not counting the clothes I wore to the Reaping. A clean getup for each day of the week, and then wash them on the seventh day. I'm not used to having to make decisions. When I open the drawers, I discover more clothes here than my whole family owns. And they are all for me.

This angers me. Out of everything I've seen and heard today, this extravagance for a boy who will be dead in a few short weeks nearly finishes me. _How many meals would these clothes buy for families in the Seam? How many girls like Katniss could have been given bread, without having to hide it from my mother?_

So many questions today and no answers. I just grab whatever is on top, jerking on soft cotton undergarments, followed by a pair of dark blue pants and a lighter blue shirt. I scold myself. Anger and frustration will get me exactly nowhere at this point.

Dressed, there's nothing to do but sit back on the bed and wait. But I can't stand to sit still. I jump up and go to the door, pressing my ear to the edge to hear if anyone is moving out in the hall. I don't hear anything, so I slide it open and look around. My ever-present Peacekeepers have disappeared, and I'm alone. I step out slowly, know I'm being watched and hope I'm not breaking some rule by leaving my room.

When no alarms sound, no Peacekeepers lunge from behind the doors lining the hallway to apprehend me, I walk more confidently toward the end of the car. Another sliding door with a glass window, about head height, waits for me to open. I peer in the window and see a beautiful room with polished paneled walls and crystal chandeliers rocking gently with the motion of the train. I open the door, and I can see more of the long table set with fine porcelain the color of new fallen snow, shiny silverware and glass goblets ready to be filled. The idea of the fragile glasses in a place where they could so easily be broken reminds me of my family's precious drinking glasses. They would look like crude tin next to these perfect flutes, but that makes me value them more, all the same. I can't believe it was just this morning I drank from those glasses. It feels like a year ago.

I step closer to the table to examine the place settings. The door on the opposite side of the car slides open. Effie Trinket hops in, bright and bubbly as usual.

"Ah, Peeta! Thank you so much for being early! Good time management is a sign of excellent breeding, and I'm so pleasantly surprised to find the trait in a person from one of the outer districts!" She smiles at me, as if she's given me a great compliment.

I don't want to tell her I was just restless, I hadn't meant to be early for dinner, so I simply say, "Thank you, Ms. Trinket."

"Oh and so polite, too! You must call me Effie, dear! Ms. Trinket is my grandmother!" She winks at me, "Now I'm off to find Katniss! It was too much to think both of you would be so good mannered." She looks at the sparkling gold watch adorning her wrist, tuts, and strides down the length of the car out the door I just entered.

I'll never understand people from the Capitol. They act like people from District 12 aren't even human, and their accents! The strange vowels, the prolonged "s" and the clipped consonants, and they barely open their mouths. It's a wonder we are even from the same species. _This is, I guess, exactly how they feel about us._

I take a seat in the nearest chair when the rocking of the train gets particularly rough. Effie comes back into the room, followed by Katniss who looks very pretty in a dark green shirt and pants. It compliments her dark complexion. I can clearly see the small glint of gold on her shoulder, now. It's a pin, a circle surrounding a bird in flight. The bird looks familiar, but I can't quite place it until Katniss moves into the car, her swaying shoulder making the bird look like its flying. It's a mockingjay.

Mockingjays are common around our district, where the rebellion was apparently strong. They're a bird with a funny past, and I'm sure the Capitol would love for it to be forgotten.

During the Dark Days, Capitol scientists genetically engineered many different animals, called _muttations_ , to serve in their war efforts. One of which was a bird dubbed the jabberjay. Exclusively male, they were homing birds like pigeons, and had the ability not only mimic human speech, but remember and repeat entire conversations. The Capitol would release jabberjays into know rebel areas, recording the information they heard and repeated when the birds flew back to their bases.

It took a while for the rebellion to figure out how the Capitol was spying on them, but once they did they used the jabberjays to their advantage. False information on troop movements and strategy were sent to the Capitol for weeks, until it became apparent that their weapon had been turned against them. The jabberjays were abandoned, as are all Capitol creations that outlive their use, and left to die in the wild.

But they didn't die out. They survived by mating with female mocking birds to give birth to a whole new species. Mockingjays lost their ability to repeat actual words, but they can replicate other human sounds in the form of music. They can retain and repeat complicated melodies, if they are willing to listen to you sing.

Katniss has a beautiful voice, one all of the birds, not just mockingjays, stop singing to listen to. I haven't heard her sing since her father died in a mining accident five years ago. Just months before I threw her the bread. She got that voice from him.

Effie brings me back to the present by making that little tutting sound on the tip of her tongue indicating she is annoyed. She glares at her watch, then looks at me and plasters a smile on her face.

"Where's Haymitch?" She says brightly.

I honestly don't know where he is, but I don't really want her to go looking for him. Dinner would be much more pleasant without him.

"Last time I saw him, he said he was going to take a nap," I lie smoothly, I think.

"Well, it's been an exhausting day," says Effie. I can't tell if she believes my lie, or wants an excuse to have Haymitch absent for our meal, too.

Katniss has been standing through our exchange, but Effie now directs her to a chair across and to the left of mine. Effie sits directly in front of me, and the dinner begins.

We're served in courses: a thick carrot soup, bright orange and vibrant; a green salad with peppery leaves; juicy lamb chops with creamy mashed potatoes; an entire course of cheeses and fruits both familiar and exotic; and finally, a rich chocolate cake, the frosting a little too sweet for my taste.

Throughout the meal Effie is the only one who speaks. She warns us at the start of every course more food is to come, but I don't really pay attention. This food is so different from the stale bread and broth I'm used to eating at home, and I'm trying to get as much as I can, as fast as I can. The food is so delicious I barely notice Katniss the entire meal, except to note she's eating at the same pace I am.

As I'm finishing my lamb chop, Effie says, "At least, you two have decent manners. The pair last year ate everything with their hands like a couple of savages. It completely upset my digestion."

I sent down my fork, my digestion a little upset now, as I think about the two tributes from last year. They were two of the kind my mom complained about the loudest. They lived in the community home, for orphans and children whose parents aren't fit to care for them. They had probably never had so much as a plate of food to themselves their entire lives.

I don't respond, and neither does Katniss. She does, however, employee a little bit of District 12's flavor of dissension, by ignoring her silverware for the rest of the meal and wiping her hands on the tablecloth. She's beautiful when she's angry.

I'm feeling slightly queasy as the meal comes to an end. The rich food and the sheer quantity have overturned my stomach, but I think I'll manage. The dirty plates and glasses are all cleared away as Effie stands and insists we follow her into the next car.

It's the door she came through earlier, and it leads to a sitting area with a viewing monitor and plush chairs. What is it with these Capitol people and overstuffed furniture? The upholsterers there must make a fortune.

We each select a seat, and turn our attention to the monitor. The Panem Seal appears on the screen, accompanied by the anthem. Then the screen fades to black, and we start in with coverage of each districts' Reaping. Each victor makes some impression on me, but a few stand out. The staggeringly beautiful girl tribute from District 1; the monster of a boy from District 2; the clever looking boy from District 3; and sadly, the tiny girl from District 11. She looks so like Katniss's sister Prim, if it weren't for her dark skin and curly hair, I would have thought we were seeing our own Reaping.

But no, ours follows. I'm forced to rewatch the worst moments of my life so far. Seeing a close up of Katniss's face when she volunteers for her sister breaks my heart, her stoic bravery and the gesture our district offers her in return, the gesture I started, mends it again. The commentators say something about our backward ways and quaint traditions, then Haymitch plummets off the stage. A good laugh there, right before Effie reads out my name. I close my eyes, unwilling to watch myself walk onto the stage. I hear the anthem again and I know it's over.

Opening my eyes, I see the disgruntled look on Effie's face. She pats her hair in sympathy with her past self and says, "Your mentor has a lot to learn about presentation. A lot about televised behavior."

This strikes me as funny, so I laugh. "He was drunk," I say, "He's drunk every year."

"Every day," Katniss adds.

We look at each other, and smile. Warmth spreads through me at this small joke we've shared. We can make fun of Haymitch, but Effie can't. He's ours, alcohol and all.

"Yes," hisses Effie, "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"

It's like he knows when anyone says his name. In comes Haymitch, staggering to one of the chairs, and puts both hands down on its arm for balance.

"I miss supper?" he slurs out. Then he turns his head, vomits all over the expensive carpet, and passes out, falling in the mess.

"So laugh away!" Effie says, eerily echoing my mother's comment. She daintily sidesteps the vomit-covered Haymitch and hurries from the car.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: The Hunger Games characters and situations are not mine.**

 _We can make fun of Haymitch, but Effie can't. He's ours, alcohol and all._

 _"Yes," hisses Effie, "How odd you two find it amusing. You know your mentor is your lifeline to the world in these Games. The one who advises you, lines up your sponsors, and dictates the presentation of any gifts. Haymitch can well be the difference between your life and your death!"_

 _It's like he knows when anyone says his name. In comes Haymitch, staggering to one of the chairs, and puts both hands down on its arm for balance._

 _"I miss supper?" he slurs out. Then he turns his head, vomits all over the expensive carpet, and passes out, falling in the mess._

 _"So laugh away!" Effie says, eerily echoing my mother's comment. She daintily sidesteps the vomit-covered Haymitch and hurries from the car._

 **Chapter 5**

In the wake of Effie's expedient exit, both Katniss and I are left speechless. Effie can't know about my last conversation with my mother. I guess there could have been secret cameras in the room where I said my last goodbyes, but whoever puts together the viewings of the Hunger Games wouldn't be able to resist showing the tributes in their most vulnerable moments. It's the kind of thing the people in the Capitol eat up. The commentators for the broadcasts have big reactions to three things: tears, dramatic outfits, and violent death.

But even if there were secret footage we don't get to see, and even if Effie has watched it, I have a feeling she would never deliberately use the information to harm me. Despite her pretentious Capitol idiosyncrasies, I don't think she wants to _hurt_ me. In fact, everything she's done after drawing my name from the tribute pool has been to help me, to prepare me in the best way she knows how. Sure, she wants to be assigned to a "better" district, one where she doesn't have to put up with the drunken groping of former victors, but I also think she genuinely wants to one of us to win, because she may actually like us.

I shake my head, writing her comment off as a weird coincidence, and bring my attention back to Haymitch's disgusting predicament. He regains enough awareness to feebly push up, only to have his hands slip across the slimy rejections of his stomach and fall right back in the mess. I look over at Katniss, who meets my eyes impassively. She raises an eyebrow at me, as if to say Haymitch is my problem and she'll just follow my lead.

I sigh. Wasn't I just thinking about how Haymitch is ours, _alcohol and all_? I guess if that's the case, he's ours in this state as well. And Effie has a point. Haymitch will be our only link to the outside world while we're in the arena. Right now, he needs us as much as we'll need him. I nod to her, and we each take Haymitch under one arm and help him get to his feet. He's recovered to the point where standing and speech are possible, if barely.

"I tripped? Smells bad," he says. It's the understatement of the century. I thought it was bad from a few feet away, but up close and personal, the mingling smells of bile and spirits leaves me as nauseated as when we first finished our meal. He swipes his hand across his face, leaving a smear of bile. My own stomach seriously threatens to purge itself at the sight, but I hold it down.

"Let's get you back to your room. Clean you up a bit," I say. At least, we'll get away from what is left of the vomit on the floor.

Haymitch's room is through the door Effie just left, on the other side of the train from ours. I haven't been in this compartment, but we half drag, half carry him into the narrow, rocking hallway. Luckily Haymitch left his door open, so we don't have to guess which room is his.

I look around the room, noticing how similar it is to mine. The main difference is the bed. Where mine was done in linens and downs of pristine white, Haymitch's is covered in dark, embroidered fabrics. Katniss would like to just lay him on the bed and be done with it, but I'm reluctant to do so. I don't want to just leave him to his own devices, and I don't want to ruin the beautiful bed coverings. From what I've seen of the Capitol so far, they would probably just be thrown away rather than have effort put in to clean them, and the thought of the wastefulness threatens to bring back my earlier anger upon discovering my excessive wardrobe.

So we take Haymitch straight into the bathroom and dump him in the tub. I turn on the water, wincing at the icy temperature, but Haymitch doesn't so much as flinch. It will warm up soon enough.

I look over at Katniss. She's standing with one foot outside the bathroom, obviously uncomfortable with the situation. She stares at the floor, unsure whether to run or stay. I hate to see her distressed, but I am curious as to why she's upset. Her mother is a healer of sorts, ready with herbal remedies and alternate treatment options for people who can't afford to seek medical assistance from the one Capitol educated doctor in our district. Katniss must be used to dealing with the sick and injured. They're brought to her house all the time. Maybe she's just disgusted with Haymitch in particular.

Whatever the cause, I want to help her. So I give her an out, an excuse to run and hide.

"It's okay," I say, "I'll take it from here."

She hesitates, but only briefly. "All right, I can send one of the Capitol people to help you." She looks a little ashamed at accepting my offer so readily, but she's not ashamed enough to stay.

"No. I don't want them," I say. Good or bad, Haymitch really is ours. He's the last person from home I'll get to see or talk to before going into the arena, besides Katniss. He's a drunk, but the only one who could possibly understand what either of us is going through. He's also the only one who may be able to help me. I don't want Capitol people in here to mock him, to share this story until it eventually becomes part of the running joke that is his life as a mentor. He doesn't deserve to be torn apart by the Capitol. Nobody does, but since I can't do anything about my own situation, I may be able to make Haymitch's a little better.

She just nods and leaves. I watch her walk out of the compartment, sliding the door quietly closed behind her, and I feel suddenly cold. I've been close to her tonight. We even touched a few times, simple brushes of shoulders and elbows as we got Haymitch situated in the shower. I've been spoiled by proximity, and now without her the warm buzz tingling across my skin all evening dies down, leaving me feeling alone and lonely.

A sputtering cough erupts beside me, brings me back to the task at hand. Haymitch is trying to escape the jets of water streaming into his face. His arms wildly attempt to block the flow, spraying droplets all over the bathroom.

"Calm down, Haymitch," I say, "it's just water, and we need to get this vomit off you before it dries."

He stops struggling and blinks up at me like an owl in daylight, no comprehension on his face. I sigh, kneeling by the tub, and grab the bar of sweet smelling soap resting in its porcelain cradle along the white tiled wall. I wave it in front of his face.

"I need to clean you now," I say, slowly, "You are a mess." I point to his face, chest and stomach.

He looks down at the now ruined fabric of his shirt, soaked through with water and bile residue. He groans, and mumbles something incoherently.

"What was that, Haymitch? I didn't hear you," I ask. Reaching in a wicker basket like the one in my bathroom, I sort through the dark navy towels until I found a small one I could use to wash his face and hair. I push the cloth under the running water and wait until it's soaked through, and lather it up with soap.

Haymitch makes another attempt at speech, but his words are still unintelligible. I lean in closer, saying "I still can't hear you, Haymitch. I'm going to wash your face now."

As I bring the cloth up to his face his right hand whips out and grabs my arm. I stare at his grip on me, shocked he could move so quickly in his current state. When I look back at his face, his eyes are wide open and look angry.

"Leave me alone," he says. His words are still slurred, but the menace behind them is unmistakable.

I sit back on my heels, arm still in his grip. I'm not really surprised at his words, I just can't believe he can form coherent thought. His eyes start to close again, but his hand remains locked on me. I shake the arm a little, and his eyes jump back open.

"Just... need… sleep," he murmurs. His eye lids droop again, and his jaw hangs slack. I wait to be sure he won't wake up, then take advantage of his unconsciousness by pulling loose from his hold on me, and consider my options. Haymitch wasn't exactly clean before we got on the train, and even without the vomit his hair is so greasy I don't know if this one bar of soap will be enough. I could turn the water off, throw a blanket over him, and leave him. Right now, it's the easiest option. He's not going to remember anything about tonight anyway, judging from the amount of alcohol he threw up, so he won't even know I was here. He'll just assume some Capitol servant brought him back to his rooms, if he even remembers leaving them.

But I can't walk away. Pretty soon, I may have to do things in the arena I would normally never dream of doing. And I'll do them willingly enough, if not gladly. But that doesn't change who I am, here and now.

Getting to work, I scrub Haymitch's hair and face, careful to keep the soap away from his eyes and nose. The sudden stinging may wake him back up, and I'd be in trouble if that happened. I use my cupped hands to clear away the lather, and decide a second wash is necessary. It must have been days, if not weeks, since Haymitch has done this for himself.

Hair and face clean, I look down at his shirt. I'm going to have to take it off if I want to finish cleaning him. Thankfully, the water has washed the bile off most of the small, black buttons, so I gently ease the garment open. The view of his chest isn't much better than the vomit soaked shirt, but at least only a little of the mess soaked through to his skin.

If I could just get his arms free, I could pull it out from under him. Working slowly, painstakingly, I'm able to get the right, and then the left arm up and out of the sleeves. Haymitch grumbles and shifts a few times, but makes no other sign of consciousness. Worried I may push it too far, I decide to leave the shirt pushed up behind him.

I make quick work of washing his chest, and I'm done. I absolutely draw the line at removing Haymitch's pants. They didn't get dirty when he fell, they're just wet from the shower, so I don't feel so badly about leaving them on him. I rinse him off until all traces of soap are washed down the drain, and turn the water off. Without the heat from the steam, Haymitch's exposed skin starts to form goosebumps. I'm a little chilly myself.

Grabbing a towel, I gently pat his hair and face dry, then work my way down his chest. The towel seems to instantly absorb the water and eliminates it somehow, so that when I'm done Haymitch and his clothes are completely dry, but the towel doesn't feel wet at all. I whistle softly. This is something the towels in my room didn't do. I wonder if the train servants anticipated the need to dry Haymitch off without his cooperation and threw in the best tools for the job. If that's the case, I wonder how often he repeats this scene. Every year? The thought makes me a little sad, gives me a little pity for him.

With Haymitch clean and dry, I need to move him to the bed, but he's complete deadweight now. There is no good angle for me to get a hold on him, and I wonder if he would be able to get himself up if I rouse him a little. I'm trying to decide the best way to handle it when Haymitch lets out a loud, gurgling snore. So much for waking him up! It's a mystery to me how Haymitch could possibly have become a victor.

Shaking my head, I loop my left arm across his waist and around his back, I steady myself and then stand up, adjusting Haymitch's weight on my shoulder to make him easier to carry. He's not light, and I feel my knees buckle a little under the pressure. I grit my teeth, and firm up my legs. I don't think he's going to wake up even if I drop him on his head, but a drunk _and_ injured Haymitch will be even grumpier than just a drunk one. I don't think Effie, Katniss or I could take it.

The train rocks gently as I slowly make my way through the bathroom door and towards the bed. The swaying actually plays to my advantage in the end, as I time the rocking with my attempt to lift Haymitch up and onto the high mattress. He lands crooked, feet sticking out over the side, but I still call it a victory. He lets out another contented snore.

"I'm happy you're happy," I tell him. I look around for something to cover him with, since he's on top of all the bed linens, but see nothing available. I walk back into the bathroom, grabbing the towel from the floor, and throw it over his inert form.

Looking down at Haymitch peacefully sleeping, toes poking out from underneath the towel, I feel the day's exhaustion, both mental and physical, catch up with me. All I want to do now is make it to my room to clean up and go to sleep.

Closing Haymitch's door as quietly as Katniss, I tread lightly through the corridor and into the television car. The screen is blank, and the lights are dimmed down to a minimum. The pool of vomit has already been cleared from the carpet, and the disturbed furniture set back in its place. What little light there is guides me to the other door and through to the dining cart. The crystal chandeliers make soft tinkling sounds, the hushed lullaby of the train.

The song follows me to my rooms, playing through my thoughts as I prepare for bed, taking a quick shower get rid of Haymitch's awful smell. After I'm clean, I'm too tired to care about dressing, so I fall in bed wrapped in a towel. I close my eyes and expect sleep to come quickly, but it doesn't. Now that there is nothing to distract me, no Katniss or Effie or Haymitch, I can't turn off my mind. Thoughts zip by, about home, my family, the Capitol, the bakery, Katniss and it's impossible to sort through them or slow them down.

I look out the window, watching the stars in the distance streak by as we pass at incredible speed. It's funny, after the first few minutes aboard the train, I didn't even notice we were moving, except the side to side rocking of the train. Now, looking out the window, I remember just how fast we're moving, how fast we'll reach the Capitol. We should be there before noon tomorrow.

What will my family be doing then? No one will be required to watch any of the Capitol's broadcasts until later tomorrow evening, when all 24 tributes will be presented to Panem in the opening ceremonies. So around noon tomorrow, Colm will be eating lunch at school, sitting with his friends. Jemin and mother will be in the store front, dealing with customers. My father will be in the kitchen, manning the fires and monitoring whatever is going in the ovens. I know Colm mixed up cake batter while I was chopping wood this morning, so maybe it will be cakes. But my guess would be breads or pies, since I won't be there to frost and decorate the cakes after school. I wonder who they will get to do that now. Neither Jemin nor Colm have the skills or patience for that type of work.

Are they missing me? Mother is, or at least my labor. Those cakes are some of the most profitable things we make in the bakery. Now that's she's realized she has no one to decorate them, she may regret I won't be coming home, if only for that reason.

I hope my father and brothers don't think about it too much, me not coming home. It's why most families in District 12 have multiple children, anyway. Having lots of kids helps if you lose one in a random drawing, especially if you have a family trade like mine does. At least they don't have to worry about Jemin or Colm anymore, since they've both made it past their final Reaping. Having more than one tribute from the same generation in a family is extremely rare in our district, anyway. But in other districts, there are eager volunteers to follow in the footsteps of siblings. Because in the wealthier districts, whole families devout their lives to training for the Games, even though it's technically illegal. All the other districts call them Career Tributes, and they mostly come from Districts 1, 2 and 4. Consequently, most of the victors are from those districts, too.

In seventy-three years, District 12 has only produced two victors, so the odds are definitely not in my favor. I know I'm not going to survive this. I can bake bread, and I suppose I'm fairly strong compared to other tributes from District 12, but not when compared to the Careers. I'm not really smart, I don't know how to survive in a harsh environment, and I have absolutely no experience killing anything. But since that moment back in the Justice Building, I know my goal isn't survival. That's not something I can achieve with my limited abilities, so I've set my sights on something else.

All day, this plan has been working at the back of my mind. I have a lot of weaknesses that will keep me from winning the Games, but I have a few strengths. I am likable, if you judge by the number of friends I have in school, and I'm good with words, and most importantly, I have something the Capitol has never seen before. I have a story new and different, to add a spin on the Games that's never been played. We all know how the residents of the Capitol loved to be entertained. Well, if I can put my ideas in motion, I'll knock their socks off.

The comfort that thought brings and the rocking of the train finally lull me to sleep.

 **oOoOoOo**

As soon dawn begins to shine through my window, I am awake. I try to close my eyes and go back to sleep, but it's useless. Stretching, my back twinges and several of my joints are sore. The softness surrounding me is definitely not what I'm used to, because my bed at home has one, thin mattress and a nearly flat pillow. This bed has two mattresses and five thick down pillows. Digging myself free of the plushness, I stand and do some actual stretching, the kind we perform before wrestling matches at school. I want to be prepared for the day.

The opening ceremonies will be tonight, and as soon as we reach the Capitol, we'll be handed over to our stylists in preparation for for the event. The stylist we're assigned will be responsible for our appearance from that point forward, which can be a huge factor in a tribute's success or failure. The Games aren't a beauty competition, but a memorable look can help get sponsors, who provide much needed support in the arena.

Finished with my stretches, I walk into the bathroom, and bend my head under the faucet. The cold spray of water helps to shake off the last bit of sleep. Drying my hair and face, I search the small table tucked in beside the tub for a comb, opening drawers and discovering bottles and vials of unidentifiable liquids. I ignore these, finding a black comb tucked back behind a violently green plastic bottle. I run the comb through my hair, dragging the strands back towards the nape of my neck. Once it dries, nothing will prevent it from falling in waves over my forehead, but for now it will stay out of my eyes.

Grooming done, I go back out into the bedroom, and look at the chest full of clothes. I know they will all be discarded as soon as I leave the train, but there's nothing I can do about that. I can be angry about it, or I can do my best to focus on the things I can control. So I choose another set of clothes at random, this time a dark red shirt and black pants. My hand-me-down shoes look shabby next to the crispness of my new clothes, but I haven't seen any extra pairs lying around, and I don't want to look for any. I'm comfortable in my own shoes.

A rumbling noise from my stomach makes me realize how hungry I am. After we finished dinner last night, I thought I was so full I'd never eat again. Apparently my stomach has other ideas, so I make my way back into the dining car, wondering if breakfast is ready.

I'm disappointed to see Effie's hair bobbing by before I open the door to the car. I was hoping to have at least the beginning of my meal in peace, but Effie will undoubtedly chatter through the whole thing. I gear myself up for polite smiles as I walk in, but it's worse than I thought.

Haymitch, looking the worse for last night's activities but with clean hair for once, sits at the table in the seat I occupied last night. He beckons me over to the chair at the end of the table and I reluctantly move to take the seat. I know it would be rude to retreat back to my room now, but I'm really tempted.

"Peeta! Good morning!" Haymitch says in a surprisingly cheerful voice. I would have guessed he would feel as bad as he looks, but he seems as chipper as I've ever seen him.

A servant puts a plate in front of me, covered to the rim with eggs, ham, and potatoes. On the table is a huge glass bowl of fruit on ice, some of the fruits I recognize from dinner last night, and some I have yet to try. A basket of rolls sits beside it, and I can smell their warm yeasty aroma from under the delicate white cloth covering them.

Another servant places a glass of orange juice in front of me, and a cup of dark brown liquid. It has steam rising in small wisps from the mug. When I take a curious sip, the flavor glides over my tongue, a smooth, sweet taste I've never experienced. Haymitch indicates to the servant he doesn't want any and instead asks for a glass of tomato juice.

"What is this?" I ask. I wish the mug was three or four times bigger. It is delicious.

"That's hot chocolate, kid," says Haymitch, "one of the perks of being on this cattle train."

Effie sits with a huff in the seat on my right. Primly folding her napkin in her lap, she looks at Haymitch, and I know I was right. This is not going to be peaceful.

"We should probably discuss how everyone will comport themselves from this point moving forward, especially for televised events," she says, "Everyone in polite society should know what is appropriate to say aloud and what to keep to _ourselves_. Also, neatness in attire and grooming is incredibly important. There are those of us here who obviously need tutelage in these areas, which I am more happy to provide." She glances meaningfully at Haymitch who is ignoring her, instead focusing on the glass of red liquid the servant brought.

He takes a sip, winces, and pulls out a flask from his pocket, diluting the drink with a clear liquid. I can smell the spirits as soon as he opens the flask. He'll be drunk again by the time we reach the Capitol.

Effie lifts her nose and sniffs haughtily, disapproval seeping out of every pore. Haymitch continues to ignore her, sipping from his glass, then thinning it out, sipping , thinning, sipping, thinning.

Finally, she can take no more.

"Haymitch! Do you not wish to present yourself in the best light possible in the Capitol? Your drunken fall at the Reaping may have been laughed away by the commentators, but potential sponsors will not tolerate dealings with a slovenly pig who reeks of alcohol! You are an embarrassment to your District and your actions reflect on me!" She is fuming now, but I can't tell if she is more upset about how rude Haymitch is, or how it makes her look in the eyes of her fellow Capitol residents. I'm surprised she raised her voice, but I can't really blame her. Haymitch did practically assault her at the Reaping and has been violently ill from alcohol ever since.

Haymitch just looks at her, blinking, then a slow grin crosses his face.

"Sweetheart," he says, faking an exaggerated Capitol accent, "If being drunk will keep the snotty, useless Capitol cronies away from me, then I say, Cheers!" He drains his glass, gesturing for the waiting servants to bring him another. They deliver it quickly and quietly, as if they already had it ready for him.

Effie's mouth gapes open, and her eyes are wide with consternation. Rather than risk another impolite explosion of emotion, she pushes herself back from the table and stalks over to the long, low counter than runs along one side of the car. It's got a pot of coffee, along with beautiful porcelain mugs, milk, sugar and honey. Murmuring under her breath, she makes a cup, going heavy on the sugar. I guess she's decided to take breakfast alone, and as she's making her out of the car she brushes past Katniss, who has just made an appearance.

My eyes immediately go to her, and I can see she is trying to make sense of the situation. Haymitch's smirk, Effie's angry exit, my embarrassment.

"Sit down! Sit down!" says Haymitch. She takes the empty seat beside me, and her food is delivered. Her eyes go as round as Effie's at the sight of so much food, but she picks up her cup of hot chocolate first and peers into it inquisitively.

"They call it hot chocolate. It's good," I say.

She looks at me, then and takes a sip. I can see the enjoyment on her face, and the feeling of warmth I got from the drink is nothing compared to the look of pleasure in her eyes. She ignores everything else until she finishes her cup.

The cold feeling I got when she left Haymitch's rooms last night is instantly banished, and warmth seeps through me. I'm amazed nobody comments on my blush, because my face feels like it's on fire. She is calmly working her way through her food, Haymitch is working his way through his second glass of tomato juice and spirits, and I'm working through how to look at Katniss without staring.

Katniss eats everything on her plate before looking up. I have gotten about halfway through my breakfast, and have taken a break from eating to pull apart one of the rolls and dip it piece by piece in the hot chocolate. Her eyes wander around the car, but eventually settle on Haymitch, who is steadily sipping, thinning, sipping, thinning.

"So, you're supposed to give us advice," she says her gaze turning into a glare.

Haymitch leans back in his chair, glaring right back. Then he smiles, and says, "Here's some advice. Stay alive." He starts laughing, a harsh, cynical laugh.

I am infuriated. All the emotions I've been pushing down are rising to the surface. My anger with my mother and the Capitol, my loneliness and homesickness, and I can't fight them anymore. Katniss wants to talk about strategy in the Games, and he laughs in her face. It's suddenly all become very serious, and his flippant response sends me over an edge.

"That's very funny," I say quietly, "Only not to us." One second of silence, two, and I'm staring at the glass of juice and spirits in his hand. The next thing I know, I'm striking out at the glass, making contact with Haymitch's hand, and the glass goes flying across the car. The smell of spirits fills the air as the glass shatters on the floor and the juice begins to seep into the thick carpet.

I instantly regret what I've done. It's not like me to lose my temper. I stare at the sparkling, jagged remains of the drinking glass, the blood red liquid causing a deep stain that grows outward as I watch. I open my mouth to apologize when suddenly I'm on the floor. Pain explodes out from my jaw, and I'm disoriented. I think Haymitch just hit me in the face, but I can't be sure because it happened so fast. If it was Haymitch, part of the mystery of how he won the Games is solved. He moves like lightning.

"Well, what's this?" I hear Haymitch ask, "Did I actually get a pair of fighters this year?"

I get to my feet, and notice a knife vibrating in the table, stuck point first in front of Haymitch's flask. I reach past it to grab some ice from the fruit bowl for my face. I'm no stranger to taking a punch, between my two older brothers' roughhousing and my mother's angry fits, I've taken my fair share of knocks to the head.

"No," says Haymitch, moving the bowl out of my reach, "Let the bruise show. The audience will think you've mixed it up with another tribute before you've even made it to the arena."

I don't understand Haymitch's logic. Tributes are not supposed to get into direct confrontations before entering the arena, and I say so.

"Only if they catch you. That bruise will say you fought, you weren't caught, even better," replies Haymitch. He turns to Katniss, "Can you hit anything with that knife besides a table?"

She jerks the knife out of the table and without hesitation throws it at the wall. It sticks perfectly in the seam between two panels. I try to gauge Haymitch's reaction, but he just appears thoughtful.

"Stand over here. Both of you," he says. And we move to stand side by side while he circles around us. I feel a poke in my lower back, and Katniss jumps slightly as if she's been prodded, too. He grabs our chins in each hand, glancing back and forth at our faces.

"Well, you're not entirely hopeless. Seem fit. And once the stylists get hold of you, you'll be attractive enough."

Katniss would look good in a paper sack, but me? I know I'm average looking. The best I can hope for is a stylist without an insane sense of fashion.

"All right, I'll make a deal with you. You don't interfere with my drinking, and I'll stay sober enough to help you, but you have to do exactly what I say," he offers.

This is more than I could have hoped for when I knocked the glass from his hand. Any effort on his part is better than nothing, and if he's willing to put forth some effort, I am hopeful I can get him onboard with my plan.

"Fine," I say, trying to suppress my enthusiasm.

"So help us," says Katniss, "When we get to the arena, what's the best strategy at the Cornucopia for someone – "

Haymitch interrupts her by holding up a hand and saying, "One thing at a time. In a few minutes, we'll be pulling into the station. You'll be put in the hands of your stylists. You're not going to like what they do to you. But no matter what it is, don't resist."

"But – " Katniss starts. Of course she can't just accept total submission, but she's interrupted again.

"No buts. Don't resist," says Haymitch. He stalls any further argument by grabbing his flask and leaving the car.

The windows go black, as if the light left with Haymitch. It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the soft light from the chandeliers, and I realize we must be passing through a tunnel in the mountains surrounding the Capitol. I can feel the steady climb of the locomotive as we make our way up towards the peaks. The darkness seems to last forever. Katniss and I just stand in silence, neither wanting to acknowledge what this final climb will mean.

Daylight floods the compartment again, and I blink against the pain. I can't help but run over to the windows to get a glimpse of the shining city I've only seen on the television, and neither can Katniss. Nothing in District 12 can even come close to this place. We pass through tall, mirror faced buildings that shine in the sun, cascading rainbows of light down on the streets. We see shiny cars and beautiful gardens. The colors are all vivid and bright, and I try to memorize everything I'm seeing. I could never have imagined some of these combinations.

The oddly dressed people in the streets begin to notice us, pointing and waving in excitement. I smile, and wave back. Any of these people could be rich, potential sponsors I need to charm. I can feel her staring at me, so I turn to look at her.

Katniss looks confused and a little angry at my friendly gestures to these people who will cheer to see us die.

"Who knows?" I say, "One of them may be rich."

Her emotionless mask drops back in place, and I know I've made her angry. She must think I'm desperate, willing to do anything to get sponsors to keep myself alive. She must realize that only one of us can make it home.

She must think I want it to be me.

She couldn't be more wrong.

 **Author's Note: Sorry for the delay in updating. It's been a very difficult week for my family, but I'm happy to get this posted.**

 **Please let me know what you think!**

 **Next Chapter, you have Peeta's prep team to look forward to, so get excited**


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

 **A/N: Hello? Is anyone there? It's been over a year since I've posted to this story. So much has happened. I got pregnant, then very sick. To save my baby, I spent 7 months doing NOTHING. He still came 7 weeks early, and it's been a long road, but he's a happy, healthy 6-month-old. I'm just now starting to feel like myself again, and that means back to writing! Thank you to those who PM'd me to see if I was ok. Your messages brought light to a dark time. Even if no one is still reading, I'm hoping to have this story finished by summer.**

 ** _Disclaimer:_** ** _The Hunger Games characters, dialogue, and situations are not mine._**

We arrive at a train station underground, gleaming white tile reflecting the bright lights from the high ceiling above. Effie admonishes us, "Now, please conduct yourselves in a polite and restrained manner. We want to put our best foot forward. There is no second chance at a first impression!"

Stepping daintily, Effie strides into the moving crowd and there's nothing to do but follow her. I stay close behind Katniss, worried about getting separated at first. But as soon as we start walking, the crowds part for us. The once noisy crowd begins to quiet as whispers surround us, obviously discussing the last two tributes. These people have seen all twenty-four of us trickle in over the course of the day. I wonder how we compare to the others, if anyone here thinks we have a chance.

Effie leads us under one of the archways into a long hallway ending in three metal doors. They look like the doors to the elevator in the Justice Building in District 12, but much cleaner. The sounds of the whispers from the station fade as we approach the elevators, to be replaced by a soft whirring noise when Effie pushes a small button in the wall beside the middle door.

A ding sounds, the far-right door opens and we pile in. Effie pushes another button, this time on the control panel in the elevator, the doors close, and we move smoothly upwards. This isn't anything like the elevator back home, that lurches and groans as it takes you up. This is more of a glide, I can hardly feel we're moving.

It's a short ride, two, maybe three floors up, we come to a stop and the doors open to another white tiled corridor. There are doors down each wall, I quickly count twenty-four in all. We've arrived at the Remake Center and of course, our rooms are all the way at the end of the hall. Effie's shoes click click click on the hard floor, sounding almost like a clock counting the final seconds of our freedom.

"Ladies on the right, gentlemen on the left," Effie says, pointing to each as if we don't know directions. "Behave yourselves and don't put up a fuss."

Under her breath, I hear Katniss say, "It wouldn't do us any good, anyway." I smile. It's the first thing she's said since turning away from me on the train earlier. Before Effie or I can say anything else, Katniss grabs the handle on the door to the right, and steps inside, closing it behind her.

I look at Effie, a little lost. This is it. I don't know why this feels more real to me than anything else that's happened since she called my name, but it finally hits home. The Games are about to begin.

"Thank you, for all your help," I say. I know in her own way, that's all she's been trying to do.

She smiles at me, "Oh, you are welcome, Peeta! But don't worry, I'm not done with you yet! I'll be helping you all the way into the arena!" Like that is supposed to make me feel better.

I nod to her, and she goes click-click-clicking back towards the elevators. I take a deep breath, and go into my own room.

 _Someone in the Capitol must really love white,_ I think, as I take in the white tiled walls and floor. A counter runs the length of one wall, covered in metal devices and jars of liquid I can't identify. A huge black chair is in the center of the room, with more strange metal contraptions coming out of both sides. Along the other wall, two white cotton robes hang on either side of a long mirror. And directly across from me, another door.

Not sure what I should be doing, I walk over to the counter to get a closer look at its contents. They don't make any more sense upon further inspection. There are long, thin, sharp implements, pads of rough paper, small scissors, hooks and files. Frankly, it appears I'm about to be tortured. I pick up a particularly gruesome looking apparatus, with handles like scissors on one end and metal bars on the other that pinch together when I close the handles. _What is all this?_

"Oh, look at you! More handsome even than you look on screen!"

The shrill voice startles me, and I drop the pincher to the counter with a clatter. I spin around quickly and see three people are standing in the other door way.

One of them steps forward, and in the same shrill voice says, "Don't be frightened! We're your prep team! We're going to take that pretty face and make it fabulous!"

She is short, very short and skinny. As skinny as some of the poorest in the Seam. Her hair flows around her down her back in a shocking pink wave, and I'm mesmerized by the color. I don't think there are any dyes in the bakery I could use to even come close to it. Her eyes are the same color pink, and her eyebrows and her eyelashes.

"I'm Rosea, and this is Nox and that's Anguis," the other two step into the room, equally strange looking.

Nox is just as thin as Rosea, but as tall as I am. Everything about her is pure black, skin, hair, nails, except for bright silver swirls that cover her arms and legs and her bright green eyes. The effect is stunning, so much so that I almost don't notice the third member of my prep team.

He is almost normal looking. Skin tone like mine, mahogany brown hair, until I see his eyes. They are frightening, deep orange and the pupils are the wrong shape. Not round but dark vertical slits. When he smiles at me, I notice his canine teeth have been sharpened to extreme points, and when he talks, it is with an even more pronounced lisp than other Capitol citizens, because his tongue is forked like a snake's.

"Come over here, Peeta, let's look at you," Anguis hisses in a friendly way, patting the chair beside him.

I cautiously step forward. I knew people in the Capitol were strange, but I've never been this close to any of them but Effie, and these three make her seem sane. I sit facing them on the chair.

"That won't do," Nox's voice is soft and quiet, and I must strain a bit to hear her, "We'll need a full view before we get started."

I stare at them, confused. A full view? What else do they want to see?

Rosea realizes I'm stumped, "Your clothes, dear! Strip down so we can see what we've got to work with!"

Oh! I'm immediately embarrassed. No girl has seen me naked, except I guess, my mother, but that doesn't count. I don't think I can do this.

"Quiet thing, aren't you? Come on, up and out of them, we haven't got much time to get you ready!" Anguis pokes me in the shoulder, making to push me off the chair.

 _Behave and don't fuss._ I hear Effie's voice in my head. _It wouldn't do us any good if we did._ And Katniss. They're both right. I'm going to be dead in about a week anyway. What does it matter if these three see me naked.

So I stand and take off my clothes. I'm a little cold, goosebumps rising on my arms. They start to scrutinize me, looking over every inch. Nox tuts over the burns on my arms. Anguis pokes at my abdomen and thighs. Rosea grabs my chin and turns my face this way and that. After a few minutes, they all step away at the same time, retreating to a corner of the room, starting a whispered conversation. Every so often, one will glance over at me and either squint or nod.

Not sure how long this is going to take, I sit back down on the chair. The slick black surface sticks to my skin. I lay back and stare at the ceiling, wondering what my prep team is going to do to me. Will they make me look more like them? Some tributes enter the arena almost unrecognizable from the person they were when they were Reaped. I hope that's not the case for me.

Silence calls my attention back to Rosea, Nox and Anguis. They've stopped whispering and have moved over to the counter, each selecting assorted items and placing them on large trays they've pulled from out of nowhere. Weapons chosen, they make their way over to me and the chair, Rosea by my head, Nox by my torso and Anguis down by my feet. Each of the trays clips onto one of the long arms extending from the chair.

"Ok, now we've got instructions from Portia, that's your stylist, we're not to do anything drastic, we're just to clean you up a bit, a quick once over on some of the rougher areas and call it a day," Rosea talks quickly. The Capitol accent, all clipped vowels and long esses, rolls out of her mouth to the point where I almost can't keep up.

"A shame, really," says Anguis, disappointed.

"He would beautiful in a light blue, to match his eyes," Nox runs a dark finger down my left arm.

"Yes, yes, but you heard Portia. Buff and shine! Let's get to work!" Rosea proclaims.

The team works on me for what feels like hours. They start with my skin, the rough paper from the counter scraping off callouses on my hands and feet. Then a runny yellow liquid is poured over my arms. It really stings, but as I watch, the burn scars fade. You can still see them, but they aren't as ugly. A thick white paste comes next, all over, and they use small, bristled brush to rub it in, then wipe it off with soft cotton towels.

I close my eyes and lose track of what they are doing, blocking out their chatter as they move around me, giving me what Rosea keeps referring to as a "buff and shine." I'm grateful at least I'll still look like me when all this is over. I can't imagine what they'd be doing if my stylist wanted me to be significantly altered.

Rosea said my stylist's name is Portia. I don't recall that name from any of the previous Hunger Games, so she must be new. It makes sense, since all the new stylists are stuck with District 12. Only the best get to move up to the better, more successful districts.

Portia will be responsible for my overall look from this point forward. Stylists, like mentors, can make or break a tribute's chance in the Games. The people of the Capitol care about how a tribute looks as much as they care about how good they are in a fight. My clothes, my makeup, my hair, everything will be carefully controlled by my stylist. Or not so carefully, if she's a bad one.

Well her first challenge is coming up. The opening ceremonies are tonight, and the costumes for the chariot parade will be the best indicator of how good a stylist Portia will be. Each District's tributes are dressed to show off their main industry: District 1, luxury items, District 4, fishing, District 11, agriculture and so on. As the coal mining District, the stylists for our tributes don't have a lot to work with. I remember the year ours came out in their chariot stark naked and covered in coal dust. I shudder at the thought.

The prep team has moved away from me, busy putting up the trays and discarding the dirtied towels from my transformation. I open my eyes and look down at myself. The slight sheen left on my skin is odd, but other than that, I'm not too different. I'm very clean, and my skin almost glows in the bright lights. My nails are uniform shapes, my hair is shorter, but still falls forward over my eyebrows when I run my fingers through it. Relief courses through me. My prep team wasn't lying, I am still me.

I gently touch my eye, the one Haymitch punched. It's still tender, but not as painful as before. It seems they've left the bruise, like they've left traces of the scars on my arms.

Rosea turns back to me, smiling, "We've got to go now, Peeta. Portia will be here soon. Oooh I can't wait to see you in the parade!" She bounces out of the room, followed by Nox who waves, and Anguis who blows me a kiss.

The door closes behind them, and I'm on my own. Looking around again, I catch a glimpse of my face in the tall mirror. I do still look like me, but a better me. I can't tell exactly what they've done, but I look sharper, not so soft around the face. I'm still looking at myself when the door opens again.

A tall woman walks in. Her skin is a beautiful color, like the hot chocolate we drank on the train. Her hair is curly and crazy, a light color, like mine. She really does look almost normal, no surprises for me like Anguis. This must be my stylist.

"Hello, Peeta. My name is Portia. My partner Cinna and I are the stylists assigned to District 12, and I requested that I be allowed to work with you," Her voice is smooth, calming, sweet, reminding me again of the hot chocolate from the train, "Would you please stand up for me?"

I get out of the chair, for the moment forgetting to be self-conscious. Portia doesn't scrutinize me the same way the prep team did. She looks me over quickly, smiles, and hands me one of the robes hanging beside the mirror.

"Come with me," she says. I follow her through the far door into a small sitting room. There is a dark wooden table and two chairs next to a window that looks out onto a busy street. The walls aren't white, but a warm brick color like the ovens in the bakery. The carpet is a deep blue, thick and soft on my bare feet.

Portia walks over to the table, points me to a chair and asks, "Are you hungry? Should I order us some lunch?"

"Yes," I say, my voice rough. I realize I haven't spoken since my last words to Effie in the hallway. I have no idea how long ago that was, but since Portia mentioned food, my stomach comes to life, letting me know that as far as it's concerned, it's been way too long since breakfast.

She walks over to a panel set in the wall next to a small metal door, presses a button and asks that lunch be delivered to our room. Seconds later, there's a ding, and she opens the door to reveal a tray laden with food. Portia carries it over to the table and sits across from me.

The tray holds two portions of chicken and orange chunks floating in a creamy sauce. There are two bowls of a white grain I don't recognize, and a honey-colored pudding. But what catches my attention are the rolls. They are shaped like roses, the tip of each petal delicately browned, the surface glossy. They are unlike anything I've ever seen, better than the fanciest rolls we make for the mayor during rare visitors from Capitol officials.

"Eat, Peeta, then we'll talk," Portia pulls one portion of food towards herself and pushes the rest on the tray to me. All of this, just for lunch? My stomach gurgles, urging me to dig in. Everything is delicious, especially the beautiful rolls. I try not to eat too quickly, but it's just a few minutes before I've cleared my plates. I wipe my face and hands with the napkin, and look up at Portia. It doesn't look like she's touched her food. Maybe she's not hungry.

She opens her mouth to speak, but sighs, closing it. Her eyes trace over my face, as if looking for something. I don't know what she wants from me. I feel like I'm letting her down.

In her velvety smooth voice, she starts again, "Peeta, I've wanted to be a Tribute stylist since I was your age. I'm here to help you. I want you to have the best possible chance in these Games."

I don't know what I was expecting her to say, but it wasn't that. Without thinking, I say, "It must be nice, to choose what you want to do."

She looks puzzled, and asks, "What would you do, if you could?"

There is something about Portia that makes me blurt out the first thing on my mind.

"I'd save Katniss."

I can't meet her eyes. I look down at the carpet, digging my toes into the dense fibers, trying to hide them, to hide me. I feel more naked than when the prep team had me stripped to the skin. Now, two people know my secret.

"Peeta," her quiet voice penetrates the silence, "Look at me, please."

Reluctantly, I raise up my head to see a soft smile on Portia's face, and eyes full of understanding.

"There is no shame in being in love, Peeta. But would you give up on yourself so easily? If I tell you I think you have a real chance to win, could I change your mind?"

"No," I whisper. _Never,_ I think.

She sighs, "There is nothing more noble than wanting to sacrifice yourself to save another. If anyone understands that, it's Katniss. Does she know?"

"Please, please don't tell her. She can't know, not now. Not after all this time and now we're here. Please, Portia, please-" My words catch on a sob, and now I'm afraid I'll break down in front of Portia like I did with my father.

I feel soft hands curl around my shoulders, a floral smell slips through the air, and Portia's calming voice says, "No, I won't."

Portia's eyes are much closer now. I can see very faint lines that curve upwards from the edges. They are kind eyes.

"Peeta, I'm very sorry you've found yourself here. I told you I'm here to help. I will do whatever I can, if saving Katniss is what you truly wish."

"It is," I nod. Is it possible she'll really help me? Won't her chances of being promoted be hurt if I lose? Why would she do this?

She looks pensive, and stares across the room for several moments, absentmindedly twirling one of her curls around her fingers.

"I don't think," she starts hesitantly, "we can pull this off on our own. Now that we have a goal, we'll need all the help we can get. Cinna, my partner, your mentor and escort, can I tell them, as long as I promise Katniss won't find out?"

Others? I'm not even sure Portia will really help me, much less this other stylist I've never met. And definitely not Haymitch. We made a deal that we'd do what he says and try to win. How is he going to feel about me backing out of that now?

"I don't know," I'm honest with her.

"Ok, Peeta. Let's just get through the Opening Ceremonies and we'll go from there." She hops up from the couch, and walks over to a slit in the wall that runs from the ceiling to the floor. At the press of another button, part of the wall slides away and a rack glides out, on which is hung a full black suit, shiny leather boots and strips of yellow, orange and red fabric.

_O_O_O_

The colorful strips of fabric turned out the be a cape, which streams behind me as we walk down the hall towards the elevator. Portia and I have been joined by my prep team, who gasp in delight at my costume.

Waiting by the elevator are Katniss and her team. She takes my breath away in an outfit that looks like mine, her hair is sleek and glossy, her skin glows, and I'm pleased to see she hasn't been covered up in too much makeup. They've left her alone, just a "buff and shine." Not that she needed any changes to stand out from even this preening crowd from the Capitol.

I don't get a chance to even say hello. We're pushed to opposite sides of the elevator as the prep teams congratulate the stylists on how amazing we look, and what a splash we're going to make. It's hard for me to understand them when they speak so quickly, but I catch the words fire and capes several times. My eyes meet Katniss's and they must be as round as mine. What about our capes, and fire?

A man from the other prep team, maybe her stylist Cinna, must notice Katniss's look, because he says, "It's not real flame, of course, just a little synthetic fire Portia and I came up with. You'll be perfectly safe."

I wonder why Portia didn't tell me. Maybe she thought I'd run away, screaming. Not that I'd get very far, but after our conversation and my revelation, I did think we were on the same side. I guess it's possible since I'm a baker's son with the scars to prove it, it didn't occur to her I might fear open flame near my body.

We reach the bottom floor of the Remake Center, and the elevator doors open to a gigantic stable full of chariots, horses, tributes and prep teams. Sounds and smells assault me as we make our way over to our chariot all the way at the end of the line. District 12, always last.

Cinna and Portia load us up into the chariot and fuss about us. They pose us, carefully drape our capes, and Cinna plays with the angle of Katniss's headpiece. Once we are satisfactorily placed, the move away a few feet, bending their heads together and whispering to each other.

I strain to hear what they're saying, when a light fluttering blows in my ear.

"What do you think? About the fire?" Katniss whispers to me.

I'm suddenly overwhelmed by her nearness, and must restrain myself from reaching out to her. I try to make a joke, so she won't notice.

"I'll rip off your cape if you'll rip off mine."

"Deal," she says, deadly serious. "I know we promised Haymitch we'd do exactly what they said, but I don't think he considered this angle."

I guess there are a lot of things Haymitch never considered, especially what I told Portia.

"Where is Haymitch, anyway? Isn't he supposed to protect us from this sort of thing?" I ask her. If I keep our conversation lighthearted, maybe she won't notice how I'm leaning toward her like a flower to the sun.

She surprises me by saying, "With all that alcohol in him, it's probably not advisable to have him around an open flame."

We both start laughing. I'm so grateful for the relief of tension I almost miss the opening music. Light floods the stable as huge sliding doors part to show streets teeming with Capitol citizens eager for the start of the Games. We'll process past them on our way to the City Circle, where we'll be welcomed and escorted to the Training Center, the last stop before the Games begin. The front chariots start to move, each one waiting a few minutes before the next breaks into the open. It's not long before we're up behind District 11 at the gates.

The chariot rocks back slightly as Cinna appears, bearing a lit torch. "Here we go then," he says as he sets our capes on fire. There's no heat as the flames rush towards my shoulders, only a light tickling sensation. "It works," he sighs with relief.

He looks directly at Katniss, and touches her face, "Remember, heads high. Smiles. They're going to love you!"

As he lands, our chariot starts to pull away. He shouts and gestures to us, clasping his hands together. I can't him over the roar of the crowd and the music.

Katniss leans over to me, "What's he saying?" Looking at her, lit by the flames, I'm stunned. She _is_ beauty, and I wish I could capture this moment forever.

"I think he said for us to hold hands," I say. Who knows if this is what Cinna wanted? I don't really care. I want to touch her, so I grab her hand, and she looks to Cinna as we pick up speed. I can only assume I'm right, since she doesn't jerk her hand out of mine as we pull out in to the city.

I don't take my eyes of Katniss, even when the gasps of the crowd turn to cheers of "District Twelve!" Our carriage sways slightly and Katniss clutches my hand, hard. Flowers rain down on our chariot and people start screaming our names, more hers than mine. She's mesmerizing.

When we pull to a stop in the City Circle, Katniss loosens her grip on my hand. I grasp at her. "No, don't let go of me," I say, _Ever,_ I think. "I might fall out of this thing."

"Okay," she says.

When the music stops, all eyes, including mine, turn to the president, who welcomes up to the Capitol. As daylight fades to night, the flickering of our capes becomes distracting and I can still hear the crowds whispering our names. The anthem plays, and our chariots all file into the Training Center.

As the cheers of the crowd are cut off by the doors, our prep teams surround us. My three are ecstatic, Rosea and Nox almost in tears and Anguis hissing away. Cinna and Portia come into view to help us out of the chariot. Portia spun us around and sprayed our capes with some kind of mist that extinguished the fake flames.

I feel Katniss pull away from my hand, and with no excuse to hold on, I let her go. I bring my hand up to my chest, hoping to hold onto the feeling of her fingers clasped in mine.

She's looking down at her hands, rubbing them together. We're awkward now, in a way we weren't in the chariot.

"Thanks for keeping hold of me. I was getting a little shaky there," I say. I tend to be self-deprecating when I don't know what else to say.

"It didn't show," she says, "I'm sure no one noticed."

Buoyed by the compliment, I'm eager to return in kind, "I'm sure they didn't notice anything but you, " _I didn't,_ "You should wear flames more often. They suit you." I smile at her.

She smiles back, and surprises me again by reaching up on tiptoe and kissing my cheek.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

 **A/N: Thank you to morningstar115 and lizyeh2000 for reviewing! And thank you to everyone who has followed/favorited since the last time I said thank you (Virginia1675, kolorfulk, Kelvin240, Darkriver Hunter, literarylove365, AnIrishHopelessRomantic (great name!), Faeyeleonora178, hstrywlk, soccahottie11, beserkerbeast, JacobB'sImprintee, deltagirl74, kimbaleena2002, lizyeh2000 & CaptainOfTheKeep).**

 **Please review!**

 **Disclaimer:** _See disclaimer from Chapter 6._

 _She smiles back, and surprises me again by reaching up on tiptoe and kissing my cheek._

My cheek burns where her lips met my skin. The spot is still tender from Haymitch's punch. She's kissed my bruise.

The tingling feeling lasts through the elevator ride to the top of the Training Center tower. This elevator is made of crystal, and I watch the rest of the tributes and their prep teams shrink as we shoot up towards our floor. The upper twelve levels are the living quarters for the tributes in the week leading up to the Games. In a very predictable feat of design, level twelve is reserved for the District Twelve team.

Effie talks the entire ride up, something about meeting with sponsors while our prep team cleaned us up. She says something about coal, and pearls. I try to focus on what she's saying, but I'm not really listening. My mind lingers on the feel of soft lips brushing my cheek.

I can feel Portia's eyes on me. She and Cinna have been murmuring quietly to each other in the corner. The elevator's doors slide apart on a wide-open area with couches and chairs arranged around a dark viewing screen. Over to the right, there's a long table covered in a crisp white table cloth, set out with delicate plates and gold cutlery, tall vases filled with bright red flowers, but no food. There are six low-backed chairs for the six place settings. I wonder if Cinna and Portia will be eating here every meal. I hope so.

Katniss doesn't look around, just steps off the elevator, looks at Effie, and says, "Where's my room?"

"Oh, yes, you must wish to change! Come, come this way. Aren't these rooms beautiful? So much nicer than anything you're used to, of course. Even our train can't compare to our accommodations here in the Capitol. Katniss, I was so impressed with your demeanor in the opening ceremonies. You did so well…." Effie's voice trails away after her and Katniss follows.

When she's gone, I press my hand to the spot she kissed, trying to hold onto the feeling. I stand just outside the elevator and feel the doors close behind me. A hand touches the small of my back, maybe Portia's? It pushes me forward gently. I stumble a bit, then walk into the room in a daze.

 _She's just grateful for the support during the carriage ride,_ I tell myself. _She didn't mean anything by it other than to say thank you._ But what if it did mean something? What if she noticed me, really saw me during the parade? _Isn't that worse? Even if she did, I can't let myself believe it,_ I think. It would shatter what's left of my mangled heart, either way.

A deep, quiet voice close by my ear surprises me. "Come Peeta, I want to show you something," Cinna whispers. My hand drops from my face, my eyes clear and settle on Cinna's face. Like Portia's, his eyes are kind. I nod and motion for him to lead on.

I follow him through a long hall lined with doors on either side, up a flight of stairs tucked behind the last door, and out into the night air. He's lead me to the roof. The wind climbs up the walls of the Training Center, blowing through my hair and snatching at my clothes. I'm compelled to rush to the edge and look out over the Capitol.

I gasp at the expanse below me. I knew the elevator ride was long, so we had to be up pretty high, but I never imagined this. Only the birds should see what I'm seeing. And the Training Center isn't even the tallest building in the city. Others in the distance have roofs obscured by clouds, their sharp metal peaks piercing the sky.

Noise and shouting and laughter hit me again. I look down to see cars and people moving below me, bright lights reflecting off metal hoods, clothes, hair and skin in a riot of color in the dying sunlight.

Transfixed, I say, "Are we even allowed up here? It's beautiful, but you think they'd be afraid one of us would decide to jump rather than face the arena."

A sigh beside me lets me know Cinna has joined me. "Yes, I suppose there is beauty here. Affected beauty, only valued for the attention it garners, not for its own sake." He says. I can hear sadness in his voice. "And don't worry, even if you wanted to, you can't escape." I watch as he tosses a small object over the edge, and I'm shocked, figuratively, when it bounces off thin air, right back into his hands. "Forcefield."

I glance at him and realize he's looking at me. I turn away from the view of the city, and look around the rest of the roof. There is a clear dome over what looks like a small garden in one corner, but the rest is bare, uninteresting. I finally meet his gaze. I find understanding there, kindness, and sympathy. I'm instantly suspicious.

"Portia told you, didn't she?" I ask. I feel betrayed.

"Yes, Peeta, Portia told me. I hope you will forgive her. As you get to know her, you'll find she has a difficult time hiding things, especially from me. I suspected something was going on and I confess I pestered until she told me. She's telling Haymitch and Effie now," Cinna says. He looks down at his hands, spread in front of him, asking forgiveness for them both.

"I'm certain you see its best we all know. Our chances of helping Katniss only increase if everyone is working together, with all the information," He looks up at me. I can see he's sincere.

I grin self-deprecatingly, "She got to you too, didn't she?" I know I'm not alone, not the only one willing to take risks to save Katniss. I may be the only one who has to die, but the rest will do what they can.

Cinna chuckles, "She certainly has… something, doesn't she? And she's off to a great start. You both made quite the impression, if I do say so myself." He seems pleased.

"She's the only one that matters, now," I say as my grin fades. If we're going to do this, I can't think of myself. I was never going to make it through the Games, anyway, so might as well focus on something I have a chance of accomplishing.

"Peeta, I want you to know, we would have worked just as hard for you, if that's what you wanted," Cinna puts his hand on my shoulder, "We still can, if you change your mind. Portia and I, we could give you as good a chance as any. Think about it."

"No. She could do this. She really could. And she has Prim at home, her mother, and –" I hesitate, "Well, she has something to go back to, anyway. Trust me, without her, I've got nothing to miss in District Twelve." _Except Madge, and a few others who may miss me back. My father, maybe my brothers. Don't think about them, can't think about them._

I nod, "It's better this way. I'm not mad at you, or Portia for telling, not really. Just so long as Katniss doesn't find out."

Cinna sighs again, resigned this time. "I had to try," he says, "But if you're sure, we'll all do our best to help her. Now, you need to go get changed and ready for dinner." He looks down at his wrist, where a brown leather strap holds a pearl watch face showing early evening.

He turns away from me, leaning over the edge and looking down at the Capitol. These stylists aren't who I expected them to be, if I had any expectations. I make my way to the stairs leading back to our quarters.

I look back when Cinna says, "You're an extraordinary young man, Peeta, with an extraordinary capacity for love. Don't let them take it away from you." He continues to stare out at the view.

I want to say something, anything. I'm not extraordinary. I'm Peeta, just Peeta. But I don't know what to say that won't sound foolish, so I go down the stairs.

_O_O_O_

My first shower in the Capitol is an experience I'll never forget. The overwhelming number of buttons and knobs confuse me, and I eventually end up coated in thick pink foam smelling of roses. It takes a while to scrub it off, but at least I know I'm clean. I doubt I'll ever get rid of the rose smell, though.

The closet is equally ridiculous. I can only laugh at the extravagance, all of it for someone who will be dead inside a week. It takes a few tries, but I figure out how to get clothes I can be comfortable in: a simple pair of soft, dark pants with a matching jacket, and a loose-fitting orange shirt. It's my favorite color, it gives me courage.

A knock on the door as I'm pulling on my rubber soled shoes accompanies Effie's voice calling, "Dinner! Come, Peeta! Come, Katniss! It's time for dinner!"

I emerge first, moving towards the sound of Effie's shoes clicking down the hallway and into the large sitting area. The table is now covered with polished silver domes, which I assume hide our dinner. The most amazing scents fill the room.

"Peeta!" Portia calls out. She and Cinna are standing on a small balcony revealed by a frameless door in the wall of blank windows across the room. I move past Effie to step out onto a platform, on which I'm startled by the absence of railings to keep us from falling to our deaths. The view of the city is even more spectacular than from the roof, if less private.

I quirk my eyebrow at Cinna. He understands my question right away.

"Yes, more forcefields protect us here. The designers clearly wanted nothing to impede our outlook," he says.

Portia moves over to me, touching my arm, "Do you forgive me, Peeta?" she asks. She looks so contrite I can't help but smile at her.

"Don't worry, I understand," I say, "And even if I were mad, it wouldn't be for long. I'm headed into the arena soon."

"Don't, Peeta," Portia says, frowning, "Don't joke, please. It's not a laughing matter. We all take what you are trying to do very seriously."

Cinna takes her other hand, "It's ok, Portia. It's Peeta's way of coping. He laughs to keep from crying. Right?"

They both look at me, and I do laugh, "I never thought about it that way, but I guess you're right. Laughing is better, isn't it?"

Smiling, Cinna nods. Portia still looks unsure, but Effie and Katniss walk into the dining area and we all make our way back inside.

Haymitch arrives as we sit down, and I'm grateful Cinna and Portia are staying for dinner at least. The last meal the four of us tried to eat together on the train, Katniss, Haymitch, Effie and I, ended rather badly. Haymitch looks like he's bathed, and his hair and whiskers have been cut to a presentable length. He even seems sober, and his eyes look a little less red.

Our stylists seem to have earned Haymitch's grudging respect, and Effie's enthusiastic admiration. When we're all seated, they only have praise for Cinna and Portia, and they seem to be speaking civilly each other. Maybe a truce has been called, since we're all fighting for the same cause now.

Young servers dressed in white tunics lift the shiny domes covering our dinner. It smells almost as delicious as the lunch I shared with Portia before the Opening Ceremonies. My stomach rumbles at the sight of mushroom soup, a salad of strange greens, rare roast beef, noodles in a minty green sauce, and a soft, mild cheese with blue grapes. No bread this time. I can't remember a meal in my life not involving bread. It's strange, and a bit disconcerting.

I check to see how Katniss is reacting to the feast, and her eyes are round as the dinner plates. Neither one of us is used to the sight of more food than we can eat. She takes a portion from every platter, so I do the same. We both focus on the meal and let the adults talk.

I've almost finished my plate when my attention is drawn by a girl, in the same white tunic as the other servers, who places a beautiful cake on the table, and promptly lights in on fire.

 _What? What is going on? My father would have a fit!_ I almost jump out of my chair to put out the flames when I realize the adults are clapping and exclaiming happily at the display. I relax and watch as it burns out, leaving a layer of torched frosting around the edges of the cake. Intrigued, I lean forward to accept a slice when Katniss speaks for the first time since we made it up to our floor.

"What makes it burn? Is it alcohol? That's the last thing I wa – oh! I know you!"

Her exclamation brings all eyes to her. Katniss stares at the girl who brought the cake, obviously trying to remember where she's seen her face. I take a quick look at her, pale skin, red hair, striking features. I've never seen her before.

"Don't be ridiculous, Katniss. How could you possibly know an Avox? The very thought," Effie huffs.

"What's an Avox? Katniss asks, confused.

"Someone who committed a crime. They cut her tongue so she can't speak," Haymitch answers, "She's probably a traitor of some sort. Not likely you'd know her." The look he gives her plainly says she should let this go.

I see a spark of recognition hit her eyes, but Katniss quickly puts up her guard, to hide from the adults. Effie admonishes her again, and she stammers something placating, but fumbles. I have an idea.

"Delly Cartwright!" I snap my fingers, "That's who it is. I kept thinking she looked familiar as well. Then I realized she's a dead ringer for Delly." Delly looks nothing like this girl. She's plain as white bread but sweet as can be. One of the friends who might miss me back in District 12.

Katniss gives me a grateful look, "Of course, that's who I'm thinking of. It must be the hair."

"Something about the eyes, too," I say, hoping to add to our credibility.

The adults apparently believe my explanation, and seem eager to move on from the topic. I wonder about the girl, and how Katniss could possible know her. I'll have to wait for the opportunity to get an answer.

The cake is delicious, warm and surprisingly moist for having been set on fire. After everyone is finished, we arrange ourselves in the sitting area facing the viewing screen, and watch a replay of the opening ceremonies. None of the other tributes come close to the coverage we receive. Even expecting it, our exit from the stables in our fiery cloaks is astonishing. Behind the voice over commentary discussing Cinna's brilliance, you can hear the crowds chanting our names. I'm a bit put out that Portia isn't being equally recognized, but I don't say anything.

"Whose idea was the hand holding?" Haymitch suddenly asks.

"Cinna's," says Portia, with a nod to her partner, who smiles.

"Just the perfect touch of rebellion. Very nice," Haymitch praises, but looks meaningfully at me.

I know what he's implying. Cinna came up with the idea because he knew I'm in love with Katniss. Something I neglected to tell Haymitch. Maybe our stylists have come up with a good strategy since they know how I feel, and the hand holding was the beginning. Either way, it seems Haymitch sees it as a small rebellion against our deal. I look back steadily, hoping he doesn't decide to ruin whatever good start Cinna and Portia have won us.

We stare at each other a moment, neither willing to look away. But then Haymitch nods, almost imperceptibly, looking over at Katniss. I feel relief wash through me. Haymitch is part of the team. Team Katniss. The thought makes me smile.

Haymitch tells us training will start tomorrow, and we'll talk at breakfast about our strategy. "Now get some sleep while the grown-ups talk," he says.

Katniss and I move together towards our rooms. I pass my room and wait until she pauses beside one of the doors. I step sidewise and lean against the frame. I'm careful to make sure I'm not blocking her from entering her room if she really wants to. I want to talk to her, not put her on the defensive.

"So," I say nonchalantly, "Delly Cartwright. Imagine finding her lookalike here."

She blinks up at me. I can tell she's debating whether to tell me what's going on. I will her to speak, but she still hesitates. Maybe she doesn't want to risk being overheard. I consider walking into her room, but I don't know if that's allowed.

Instead, I ask, "Have you been on the roof yet?" She looks skeptical. "Cinna showed me. You can practically see the whole city. The wind's a bit loud, though."

She considers this, "Can we just go up?"

I tell her to follow me, and up we go. In the darkness, the lights of the city are brighter and more colorful than before. We walk to the edge, and streets are still alive with cars and people. They look impossibly small from up here.

"I asked Cinna why they let us up here. Weren't they worried that some of the tributes might decide to jump right over the side?" I tell her.

"What did he say?" she asks.

"You can't. Some kind of electric field throws you back on the roof," I say, demonstrating by tentatively reaching out my hand. The forcefield gives me a sharp shock and I jerk my hand back. It hurt. "Always worried about our safety," I joke.

Katniss asks if I think we're being watched.

"Maybe," I answer, "Come see the garden."

As we move under the dome, the tinkling from the wind chimes hanging on the branches of the potted trees surround us. I couldn't hear it from the edge of the roof, but now it's enough to drown out our conversation, should anyone be listening.

She tells me the story. She and Gale, the tall, handsome boy she is always with, her cousin I think, were out on the other side of the fence hunting. I knew she hunted back home. My father bought squirrels from her and cooked them when my mother was at market for the day. I'd always wondered what is was like beyond the borders of our district. Her story gives me a glimpse. She tells me how a routine hunting trip is interrupted by the sight of a boy and a girl in tattered clothes running from something, she didn't know what. She and Gale were hidden from sight, and froze when the hovercraft appeared out of nowhere. Obviously exhausted, the pair couldn't outrun the Capitol ship. The girl was caught in a net shot from the underbelly of the hovercraft, and the boy was speared though the chest and hauled up as well. Her face is haunted as Katniss recalls the hovercraft suddenly disappearing.

"Did they see you?" I ask.

"I don't know. We were under a rock shelf," she says, but she has a guilty look, and she starts to shake. I take off my jacket and lay it across her shoulders.

I wonder if those two were from the Capitol, and where they were going. Katniss tells me she thinks they were from here, but has no idea where they were going or why they would want to leave.

"I'd leave here," I say. It must be my day from blurting out anything that pops into my head. Oh well, what else can they do to me? I laugh, "I'd go home if they let me. But you have to admit, the food's prime."

She laughs softly, but the shivers haven't stopped. I don't want to cut our time up here short, but I say we better go in. As we're walking towards stairs, I think about her story. Mostly about the fact that she was with Gale.

"Your friend Gale. He's the one who took your sister away at the reaping?" I ask, trying to sound as causal as possible.

"Yes," she says, "Do you know him?"

"Not really," I shake my head. "I hear the girls talk about him a lot. I thought he was your cousin or something? You favor each other."

My heart sinks when she says, "No, we're not related."

I'm not supposed to be disappointed. I should be grateful she has someone special back home. Her life will be happier if she has someone. Why can't I believe it? Why can't I help but be jealous of a boy a thousand miles away?

Scrambling for something to say, I ask, "Did he come to say good-bye to you?" I know the answer. I saw him get roughed up by the Peacekeepers in the Justice Building. She asked him to take care of her family. She must trust him.

"Yes," she says slowly, walking a little faster so she can see my face, "So did your father. He brought me cookies."

Another thing I know. He does it for every tribute. It's a small kindness he indulges in, one my mother can never know about. If Katniss survives, I don't want her to talk about it to anyone, so I say, "Really? Well, he likes you and your sister. I think he wishes he had a daughter instead of a houseful of boys. He knew your mother when they were kids."

"Oh yes," she looks surprised, like she had forgotten, "She grew up in town."

We've made it down the stairs and we're standing at her door again. She hands back my jacket.

"See you in the morning, then," she says.

"See you," I say, and walk towards my own door, in the same direction as the sitting area.

I hear Katniss's door open, then softly close. I smile. I've spoken with her more today than I have our entire lives. I'm a lamb brought to slaughter, but I can't help the giddy feeling bubbling in my chest. I laugh at myself. She has Gale, and I have butterflies. Life is great.

As I'm about to open my door, quiet voices drift down the hall. The adults are still awake, talking. Discussing strategy, I'm sure. I should just go to bed. I'll find out what they decide in the morning, but curiosity gets the better of me. I tiptoe down the hall to the very edge of the entryway until I can hear them clearly, but can't be seen.

" – can't deny it won't be easy." I hear Haymitch say.

"Of course, it won't be easy," Portia snaps, sharper than I've heard her yet. "We've got a lot going against us. But we've got some surprises up our sleeves."

"Don't forget we've got something no one in Hunger Games history has ever had: a love story," Cinna says, a little dreamily.

"Peeta doesn't want her to know," Portia reminds him.

"You leave that to me, sweetheart," Haymitch says. "You two gave us a good start with the flame trick. Let me worry about the rest. Just keep making matching outfits and wowing the Capitol crowds with District Twelve's fashion sense."

"Oh, this is so romantic! Just like a holonovel!" Effie exclaims.

The others shush her, and Portia reminds her to act like she doesn't know anything about it in front of Katniss.

"It's a shame," Haymitch says pensively, after a short silence, "That's it's the girl we're working to save. The boy is so much more, let's say, likeable. She's about as likeable as a drowning cat."

Another silence, then Cinna says, "Katniss has her own qualities to admire. She loves her sister fiercely, and she's brave, no one could doubt that."

"Pigheaded is more like it," Haymitch scoffs, "but she's a survivor. She'll do anything to win. Victors can recognize other victors, and I'll be damned if we can't make her one." There's a gulping noise, like Haymitch is taking a long pull from a short bottle. "Ok, I'm for bed. This staying sober deal I've made with the kids is a pain in the ass," and I hear Haymitch get up and start to move my way.

I jerk up, sprinting to my door and slip inside a few seconds before four sets of footfalls pass by. I don't think I've been caught.

 **A/N: Bonus points for the readers who catch my not so oblique references to other favorite fandoms. Thanks for reading!**


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